


I Want To Break Free

by OriOxi



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Coming Out, Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Eddie Kaspbrak Gets Divorced, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, The Losers Club (IT) - Freeform, also it's eddie and richie so you know there's gonna be cussing, and some very mild references to canon-typical violence, basically Myra Kaspbrak sucks, everybody gets a mention tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25352440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriOxi/pseuds/OriOxi
Summary: After a near-death experience at the hands of a murderous, child-eating clown, it can be difficult to return to normal life. But for Eddie, it's more than just trauma. He hates his job, hates New York, misses the Losers, and his wife is a constant reminder that he'll never know love as anything more than a locked cage and a heavy pair of shackles. That is, until he hits a breaking point and takes a spontaneous trip to Los Angeles.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 43
Kudos: 166





	1. It's Strange But It's True

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! Okay! So, this was originally just gonna be a small thing, maybe like a few thousand words and then it just... kept... going. Maybe it's not that long by fanfic standards, but it's actually the longest thing I've ever written to completion, so that's exciting for me.
> 
> Anyway, I am still very upset about the fact that Eddie went his whole life never knowing what a happy, fulfilling relationship was like. He could have divorced his wife and freed himself from a cycle of abuse. He could have had a wonderful life filled with love and friendship. He could have had Richie! A guy who fucking adored him! It's what he deserved! But he died before he ever got the chance at a better life and that's fucked, man, it's bullshit.
> 
> But that's what fanfiction is for, I guess. Such is the inspiration for this behemoth… Enjoy!
> 
> (btw the main title (and each chapter title) is based off the Queen song of the same name. If you've somehow never heard it, I highly recommend a listen, it's basically the framework for this whole thing. And it slaps.)

The thing was, Eddie had never known what real love was like.

His dad had died when he was too young to remember him, but even if he had been around, Mr. and Mrs. Kaspbrak probably wouldn’t have been the paragon of healthy loving marriages. With just Sonia, however, Eddie’s only point of reference for love was her overbearing facsimile of it; she just wanted to protect him, keep him safe, keep him healthy. If that came at the cost of his freedom and happiness, well, that was the sacrifice. 

And love was all about sacrifices. Eddie knew that. He had seen movies, had been raised on tragic comic book heroes, and it certainly made his own experiences easier to swallow. It wasn’t love that made him miserable, it was all the world’s sicknesses, which his mother was only protecting him from.

Then he met the Losers, and he started to learn better. Because Bill always saw him as part of the team, and Beverly showed him that the world wasn’t just one big threat. Stan never spoke to him like he was a baby. Ben’s form of sympathy was entirely different from his mother’s coddling, and Mike didn’t ever treat him like he was too delicate. Richie didn’t pull any punches, and he never allowed Eddie to, either.

They brought out the best in him. They cared about him. Eddie was always desperate to spend more time with them, because it actually felt good to be around them. They made him happy.

And then he forgot.

He never really made friends after leaving Derry, and not for lack of opportunity. In college, he focused all his attention on studying, and once he graduated that energy channeled into his work. Friends were never a priority. The most he had was a few casual acquaintances, which he never let himself get too close to knowing they would never meet the inexplicable expectations he had.

Eddie met Myra, of course, through his mother. He was three years into a career in risk analysis when she started to pester him about dating, and he couldn't have cared less about the idea if he tried. But Sonia Kaspbrak was nothing if not persistent. Eddie couldn't remember a time when she didn't get her way eventually.

It was no surprise that the woman she chose was her spitting image, both in appearance and personality, but Eddie didn't bother ruminating on it. His mother loved him, after all, and she was getting on in years. He owed her for all the sacrifices she had made for him, so he agreed to humor her for a while.

When he and Myra started dating, it was equally unsurprising how similarly she treated him. She doted on him, fussed over his various medications and dispositions, kept his diet balanced, and held him in the same sheltered box as his mother. Before he knew it, they had been together for three years, and Myra was talking about engagement rings, and Eddie figured she must love him if she wanted so badly to chain him down. So, he made the sacrifice.

Because love was all about sacrifices, and fetters, and safe little boxes.

He loved her back in the only way he knew how: with  _ yes, dear, _ and  _ thank you, honey,  _ and  _ don't worry, Myra.  _ She either didn't notice, or didn't mind that he rarely managed to show affection any other way; they barely ever so much as held hands, let alone any further intimacy. She was content with protecting him, keeping him safe, keeping him healthy. Because she loved him. And it wasn't the love that made him miserable, it was all the world's dangers, which Myra was only protecting him from.

Dangers like strange phone calls. Dangers like car accidents. Dangers like the evil lurking in the murky shadows of his past, always looming, never cresting, yet suddenly rushing up to swallow him.

She was a wreck when he came home, meeting cancelled, a flight already booked. “Eddie, sweetheart,” she keened, “what are you doing? You should be in the hospital right now. You know how easily you bruise—you could be bleeding internally.”

Eddie was barely listening to her, although a part of him was seizing up with guilt at the worried look on her face. She was scrambling after him from room to room as he packed, tugging at his arm. 

“Tell me what’s going on, Eddie-bear.”

The problem was, the guilt was only that: a small part of him. The rest was suffocating under an entirely different weight, that of horrible realizations and gut-wrenching dread. He wished he  _ could _ explain it to her. He wished he could explain it to himself.

“I’m sorry, Myra, I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? Eddie, this is absurd.”

“I know,” he said, hands trembling as he clipped his toiletry bag to his suitcase. “Trust me, I know. But I have to go.”

She cried, and he apologized, and she expounded on every possible horrible thing that could happen to him, and he continued to pack. She couldn’t stop him, nothing could stop him. His heart was stuttering with a profound and unfathomable ache, the words  _ 'Mike Hanlon, from Derry' _ echoing in his head like a siren. He had to go.

He spent the entire flight to Maine on the inner edge of a panic attack. The guilt of leaving Myra fought against something desperate and compulsive inside him. Memories came in fragments, out of context but so tantalizingly familiar that reaching for the missing pieces was making him crazy. All the while, a knot of fear tangled itself tighter and tighter in his gut.

It wasn't until he walked into the restaurant, memories coming in longer and clearer flashes, that things started to make some sense.

Eddie recited his list of dietary restrictions by reflex as the hostess led him through the restaurant. Usually Myra took charge of it, rattling off every allergen and irritant like she was performing for an audience, but Eddie had heard it all enough times to say it in his sleep. He was just getting into the nut portion when he heard familiar voices and looked up.

At first, he stood frozen in a shock of cognitive dissonance. He knew them— _ of course _ he knew them, it was Mikey and Big Bill, he knew them down to the music they liked best for a spontaneous trip to the Quarry—but at the same time, they were barely more than unusually familiar strangers. It felt like his head was being torn in two.

Then Mike beamed at him and stepped forward to pull him into a hug. Eddie wasn't typically very fond of hugs.

But in that moment, as Mike laughed, clapped a hand on his back, and said his name like it was something sacred, Eddie wouldn't have pulled away if the man was drenched in raw sewage.

Bill looked about as bewildered as Eddie felt, which was mildly comforting. He and Mike had been standing close when Eddie entered, so he figured they had probably been through the same process moments before. He wasn't the only one, then, who was scrabbling through memories like they were quicksand.

And if it wasn't enough trying to stumble through whatever words were possibly appropriate for an occasion like that, the ring of a gong shattered the air and tore Eddie's attention to something even more confounding.

Richie Tozier.

Usually, a douse of ice cold water to the face was enough to wake people up from wild dreams, but Richie's stupid grin as he spoke— _ ”This meeting of the Losers' Club has officially begun,"  _ he announced, as if Eddie's head wasn't already spinning—was all the same shock with none of the relieving clarity.

At least the holes in his memories were starting to fill in.

Mike hugged each of them with the same reverence that he'd had for Eddie, and they all seemed to take it the same way, if the odd smiles were anything to go by. Hesitance and sincerity made for a pretty distinct combination.

They ordered alcohol before food, and they ordered a lot of it. Normally Eddie would say something about safe drinking habits or whatever, but he wasn't really thinking about any of that. Richie was making Bev, Ben, and Bill laugh like they were kids again, and Stan was rolling his eyes, and Mike was still grinning at all of them in wonder, and Eddie was finally starting to remember everything. The Quarry, and the Barrens, and the clubhouse, and long summer afternoons, and a feeling of belonging that he had missed desperately but had never even remembered.

It was one of the greatest nights of Eddie's life, he realized somewhere between the first round of shots and his stupid arm wrestle against Richie. He couldn't believe he had forgotten what it was like, being with the Losers, with friends who cared.

No wonder his standards had been so impossibly high.

Mike finally stopped smiling when Richie gave a flustered recounting of his phone call, broaching the subject they had all been avoiding. Fear had festered in Eddie's gut since he crashed his car in New York, but he had drowned it in wine and buried it in the presence of his friends. It was nice, at the very least, to know he wasn't the only one.

Then again, it would've been nicer if there wasn't a clown to fear at all.

Later, in the dark of his room, reeling from everything that had come after, he wondered if he should call Myra. He hadn't spoken to her since rushing out of the apartment, and now there was a good chance he would never see her again. A good husband would at least let her know.

But on the heels of that thought came a sudden, bone-deep desire to never go home at all. The urgency of the feeling knocked out his breath. Despite the fear, the alarms going off in his mind about how much danger he was in already, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving the Losers behind. Myra would demand he come home, and she would probably find a way to stop the Losers from ever speaking to him.

A memory came, in the jarring way they had all come so far, of his mother banning Richie from the Kaspbrak household for a reason still lost to time and strange amnesia. Eddie had thrown what could only be described as a tantrum, but Richie was never allowed back. It had made Eddie's last three years in Derry all the more hellish. The thought of it happening all over again made him nauseous.

He felt like a child staunchly refusing to leave the playground. It might've been enough to make him laugh at himself, but he was too caught up on the realization that he cared so much about people he hadn't seen in thirty years that he was willing to risk his life. And he couldn't bring himself to tell his wife.

His suitcases were still packed, but his inhaler was deliberately tucked near the top of his toiletry bag. Eddie scrambled out of his bed, fingers shaking as he dug it out. Several puffs helped with the tightness in his chest, but did little for the panic thrumming through his veins. He needed more than hollow reassurance.

Before he could even figure out why, he was standing in the hallway, knocking on Richie's door.

"Listen, Mikey, I'm not gonna risk my fucking life on less than four hours of—Eddie?"

It shouldn't have been such a relief to see him. Eddie had made his way to bed barely an hour ago, they hadn't seen each other in decades, and they barely knew each other anymore. Still, Eddie felt lighter as Richie fumbled with his glasses and blinked owlishly at him.

"Dude, you look like shit," he was saying.

Eddie took a breath. He still had his inhaler clutched in one hand, and his body was jittery. "I'm freaking out here, Rich."

"Yeah? Well, join the club." With that, Richie stepped to the side and held an arm out to his room in invitation. Eddie brushed past him, and started pacing.

"Okay, before you say anything, I know we promised to stay," he stammered as Richie shut the door behind him. "I'm not going back on that or anything—but this is fucking insane."

"You can say that again," Richie sighed. He had flopped back down onto the bed, and was staring up at the ceiling like he couldn't bear to look anywhere else. "I keep remembering all this shit like it happened yesterday. Like it happened _ hours _ ago, instead of years."

Eddie nodded in agreement. "I can't believe I forgot," he said. “I always figured I’d had such an uneventful childhood that I just didn’t have anything worth remembering. And now I’m here, and it’s all coming back.”

Richie scoffed. “Yeah. So much for uneventful.”

“We have lives, man,” Eddie huffed. Richie raised an eyebrow at him. “How the fuck do we go back to being regular people after this? If we even survive?”

Richie sat up then, and the look on his face made Eddie’s head hurt. “We’re not regular people, Eds. We never were. We grew up here, for fucks sake.”

Eddie scowled. “Take this seriously, Richie.”

“I am taking it seriously,” he said. “Just look at us. Bill’s head is full of horror stories that are definitely based on all the shit that happened to us, Stan is such a nervous wreck that he almost didn’t make it out of his bathtub, Bev showed up with bruises on her arms. Eddie, you’re still using an inhaler that you don’t need! Face it, this place has fucked us up in ways that even the clown couldn’t cover up.”

Eddie stared at him, the inhaler clutched in his white-knuckled fist. “So, what, we just go back and pretend we don’t have fresh childhood trauma?”

Richie laughed. The sound gave Eddie a weightless feeling. “Are you kidding? Childhood trauma is a comedy goldmine. Plus,” he paused, leaning back on his hands and sending Eddie a smile, “it wasn’t  _ all _ bad.”

Eddie stared at him for a moment, trying to push past the fear and the dread to find something worth remembering. It wasn’t easy. “Care to share?” he asked. “Cuz I’m a little hung up on the imminent threat of a horrible death.”

Richie sighed, lowering himself back down onto the mattress. He glanced at Eddie without turning his head, then looked back to the cracked plaster. "Do you remember when we used to go to the theater? Just the two of us?"

He said it casually, but it drew Eddie up short. The memories came sudden and clear, as if summoned by name. There had been a lot of just the two of them, back then, between all the time spent as a group. They would cruise the streets of Derry on their bikes, and later in Richie's piece of shit Buick, going anywhere that wasn't where they ought to be. The theater had been one of their favorite places, mostly since they could stay there late when Eddie didn't want to go home.

And, Eddie recalled coldly, there had been plenty of nights where he didn’t want to go home. He shook his head.

“I remember your obsession with Street Fighter.”

Richie grinned, and it lit up his whole face. “Well, I remember  _ your _ obsession with one of those alien shoot-em-up games.”

Eddie paused, thinking, until the memory came in a flash. “Galaga,” he uttered.

“Yes! Galaga!” Richie shot up again and beamed at Eddie. “Captain Kaspbrak, the best starfighter pilot in the galaxy.”

“Shut up,” Eddie said, blushing at the moniker. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Tell that to everyone who tried to beat your highscore.”

“Pretty sure that was just you, Richie.”

“Nope. I definitely remember coming out of the movies once and hearing a bunch of kids arguing about it. God, we spent a lot of time in that place.” 

Eddie smiled softly as the memories continued to flood in. "We used to pool our allowances to buy way too much junk food," he said.

Richie laughed again. "Yeah, and you would complain the whole time about how unhealthy it was, then steal half of it anyway."

"It wasn't stealing, dipshit. I literally just said that we put our money together."

"Whatever, you know the cheese puffs were supposed to be mine."

"Richie, just because something is messy and unhealthy doesn't mean you're the only one who gets to enjoy it."

Both of them fell silent at that. The words darted from Eddie's mouth, chased by the echo of his own boyish voice; he had said the exact same thing when they were kids.

By the look on Richie's face, he was recalling the same thing. He leaned forward on his elbows, eyebrows rising up above the thick frame of his glasses as something soft passed through his eyes.

"Sure it does," he murmured. "That's why they call me Trashmouth."

Another echo, completing the memory.

The words sounded like his own personal revelation. They sat in the air for just a moment, before Richie broke into another grin and laughed like he wasn't a forty-year-old man staring down potential death in the near future, like their entire lives hadn't been completely overturned and uprooted.

After a moment, Eddie laughed with him.

They spent the next hour or so just like that, calling up old memories that felt new, arguing about half of them, and falling into fits of laughter over the rest. It didn't take long to figure out why instinct had driven him to Richie's door before anyone else's; decades hadn't changed the way Richie's humor made Eddie want to laugh and throw punches at the same time, made his anxiety dissolve like salt in hot water.

Eddie had depended on Richie for comfort and catharsis for years. If being around him eased the anxiety about Myra, well, that was just an assurance that he still could. And if that anxiety was eerily similar to how he'd felt towards his own mother for most of his adolescence, well… it was easier to focus on the better part of those memories.

Eddie didn't remember falling asleep. At some point, he had sunk down onto the bed next to Richie, never giving a second thought to how easy it was to be near him. They bickered for a while over who had been faster on their bikes, and then suddenly it was morning.

Richie was spread out on his side, one arm flung across Eddie's chest, a leg hooked over his knee.

For a moment, Eddie floated in a confused state of semi-consciousness. He hadn't woken up with a hangover in a good ten years, and he hadn't woken up wrapped in someone else's warmth in more than thirty.

Which brought another memory gliding through the haze: a younger, even ganglier Richie wrapped around Eddie just like he was now, both of them crammed into a twin bed with He-Man sheets. The image carried with it the warm nostalgia of summer, of impromptu sleepovers, of nights spent quietly bickering in the dark. Eddie could remember how the air grew thick when they were forced to whisper to each other instead of shout, like the whole world was condensing itself down into a little bubble just for them. It was enough to make Eddie sigh and smile as he opened his eyes.

But the spell was broken as he shoved Richie away with a noise of disgust. "You fucking drooled all over my shirt, dickhead!"

  


* * *

  


Myra didn't so much as cross Eddie's mind again until after they had clawed their way out of Neibolt, stumbled to the Quarry in the stunned silence of seven people who had nearly died, jumped off the cliff, swam in the cool water without a care in the world, and then  _ finally _ made their way to the hospital like they should have in the first place. Eddie, upon finally coming to his senses, had been livid.

"We have  _ open wounds, _ for Christ fucking sake," he had spat, herding them all out of the water. "It would literally be easier to list off all the things that  _ won't _ kill you after this. What the fuck was I thinking, letting us all swim in this disgusting cesspool? Kill a fucking monster and then die from an infection like a bunch of goddamn, grade-A morons."

"Eddie, relax," Mike had soothed, smiling serenely. "It was symbolic."

_ "Symbolism  _ doesn't protect you from disease, idiot!"

They'd had the audacity to laugh at that, and Eddie had pushed down a wave of affection so strong that he almost forgave their stupidity. Their walk to the hospital was anything but silent.

Despite the traumatic nature of their gauntlet through the Derry sewer system, they were largely unharmed. Bill, Mike, and Stan had walked away with only some nasty scrapes. Bev and Ben had some bruised ribs from falling, or being thrown, or whatever the hell had happened. Richie had a bloody nose, a few bruises, and a cracked pair of glasses.

Eddie ended up with the worst bill of health out of all of them, which he vowed to hold over them for the rest of their lives. Seven stitches in his cheek, and a mild concussion from when Richie had thrown him to the ground after waking from the deadlights. Richie had been in the room when the doctor gave him the news. He shrugged unapologetically in response to Eddie's glare.

"Quit looking at me like that," he laughed once the doctor was gone. "She said it was a  _ mild _ concussion, dude. It's not like you'll die."

"I wouldn't have a concussion at all if you hadn't tackled me like a fucking animal."

Richie didn't respond to that with the stupid, inappropriate joke that Eddie expected. Instead, he offered a half-assed smile, and stared at his hands. Alarm bells sounded in Eddie's head.

"Hey, asshole." Eddie kicked at his leg until he looked up from his fidgeting. "You okay?"

"Am  _ I _ okay?" Richie grinned, but it was forced and didn’t reach his eyes.

"That's what I fucking asked, yeah."

"Eddie. You could've died."

He raised an eyebrow. "We all could've died, Richie. But we didn't. So why are you acting like we have a funeral to plan for?"

Richie looked like he wanted to argue, or make a joke, or say something annoying instead of answering the question, but then he sighed. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally spoke. "I saw Pennywise kill you."

Eddie's blood ran cold. "What?"

“In the deadlights,” he explained. “It happened so fast. I tried to save you, but I couldn’t. There was so much blood, and the place was already collapsing, and I…” He shuddered. “And then I came back, and I saw you there, and I knew it was going to happen. So, I kinda panicked.”

Eddie stared at him. He shrugged again, with a little more remorse this time, and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "Probably didn't have to pull you down quite so hard, but it did get you out of the way."

Slowly, Eddie shook his head. "Holy shit," he breathed. "You saved my life, then."

Richie barked a stilted laugh, but Eddie didn't miss the pink in his cheeks. "All part of my elaborate plan to sweep you off your feet, my dear Edward,” he joked stiffly. “I'll be your knight in shining armor!"

Eddie rolled his eyes so hard it made him dizzy. Stupid concussion. "If by shining armor, you mean the ugliest T-shirts in the world."

"The shirts are my  _ brand, _ Eds. The Richie Tozier Experience. You'll have to get used to them once I succeed in sweeping you off your feet."

Eddie laughed. "You couldn't sweep me off my  _ knees _ without giving me a brain injury, jackass."

"Y'know, I'm starting to think you're not gonna let me live that down."

Eddie laughed harder, and Richie beamed up at him like it was his greatest achievement. Then the doctor came back to tell him he was free to go, and they met back up with the other Losers in the waiting room.

Eddie briefed them on his own injuries while they drove back to the Townhouse. They had all been reassuring him regularly of their own good health, keeping him updated as they made their rounds through the emergency room. Eddie might've felt like he was being too much, but they seemed eager to humor him. It was like they were all trying to wrap their heads around their own survival.

They pulled up to the Townhouse and piled out of the car. When they made their way inside, greeted by Bill and Mike, who had gone back separately, they crowded into the lobby area and ordered pizza. It was the Jade of the Orient all over again, only this time there was nothing to fear. The sun went down, and the food was eaten, and they stayed there curled up on sofas and chairs and, in Richie's case, sprawled out on the floor. Half of them were leaving in the morning, but none of them were quite ready to split off to their rooms. Eddie wasn't the only one who was dreading goodbyes.

It was well after the food was finished that Richie hauled himself into a sitting position and stretched his long arms. It had been a while since he had said anything, and for a moment Eddie thought he was about to say goodnight and head to his room. He was trying to swallow the dread that rose in his throat when Richie spoke, much too softly for comfort.

"Look, guys, I know we're pretty fucked up after all this, and we probably need a lifetime supply of therapy, but I think we can agree that we're past the fear, at least. Right?"

Eddie nodded along with the others, not quite sure where he was going. Richie glanced around at each of them, and then stared at his hands like he had in the hospital.

"Right," he continued hesitantly. "So, y'know, in the spirit of that, or whatever, I just want to tell you guys that I… I'm gay."

There was a short silence, and then the Losers Club released a collective breath of relief, as if they had expected something terrible.

Then Stan said, "Fuck, I am so glad to hear you say that, Richie."

Richie blinked up at him, a succinct  _ ‘what the fuck?’ _ sitting plainly in his eyes. Stan slid down off the couch and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I don't know about the others, but I've had my suspicions since we were in high school. Always kind of figured it was that stupid clown and this awful town that made you too scared to tell even us.” He nodded. “So yeah, Richie, I think you’ve proven that we're definitely past the fear." Then he smiled, and he looked just like he had when they were kids, sitting in a field and swearing by blood that they would come back to each other. "I'm proud of you, Trashmouth."

Richie took a long, shuddering breath, and then the rest of the Losers chimed their agreement. Mike leaned forward where he sat to squeeze Richie’s shoulder. Bev wrapped him in a hug. Even Eddie gave him the best smile he could muster despite the tightness in his chest. When Richie started crying, even while he laughed, Eddie’s voice failed him. The Losers drifted quickly back into a lighter conversation, following Richie's lead of course, and Eddie sat quietly in his own bubble.

His brain, for whatever awful reason, had chosen that moment to finally remind him of his wife. He had survived It, and Bowers, and everything else Derry had to offer, and he found that he still didn’t want to go back to her.

The only thing that stopped him from spiraling into a panic attack right then and there was a surge of laughter that pulled him from his thoughts entirely. Richie had wiped at his eyes, and was doing a surprisingly good, if scathing, Reagan impression. Eddie watched him with a pounding heart.

He didn't want to leave. It was childish and selfish—he knew he had to go back, obviously—but he just couldn't bear to lose this again. New York was waiting for him, harsh and desolate, no Losers there to remind him of who he really was, who he  _ could be.  _ Eddie hated Derry, but he would stay there forever if he could stay with his friends.

But the night wound down despite his wishes. Bev started to doze against Ben's shoulder, and Richie yawned three times in the middle of his own story, so they decided to call it a night. Eddie watched them file away to their rooms, wanting desperately to call them back for just a little longer. But he didn't.

"Hey, Eds, you good?"

Eddie stared up at Richie, the last to go, feeling that tightness in his chest again. "What? Oh, yeah, I just… didn't want to get up." He tried to smile, hoping it was more convincing than it felt, and pushed up from the chair. A wave of lightheadedness made him sway a bit. Richie held a hand out, but waited for Eddie to steady himself before actually touching him.

"Woah. Dude, you alright?"

Eddie regained his balance and shook his head. "I'm fine. Stood up too fast."

Richie searched his face. Eddie braced himself for the onslaught of coddling, the exaggerated care, the kid gloves. Then a grin spread over his features, and Eddie was reminded that this was Richie fucking Tozier, and he wouldn't know how to dote on anyone if his life depended on it.

"So you're swooning over me now?" Richie teased. The hand that had reached out, apparently by reflex, retreated into his pocket.

Eddie scoffed. "Fuck off. The concussion's  _ your _ fault, remember?"

"Ugh, that's so harsh, Eds." Richie sighed as they made their way to the stairs together. "Next time I save your life I'll be sure to follow strict safety protocols. I'll get you a little hardhat first."

"If we're following protocol, then there won't be a fucking next time," Eddie replied.

Richie laughed. They started up the stairs, and though Richie kept a close eye on him, he didn't seem ready to rush to Eddie's aid at the slightest sign of strain. Eddie kept one hand on the banister, and from the corner of his eye, watched Richie watch him.

"Pennywise never would have managed to kill anybody if those OSHA bozos had done their jobs," he was saying. Eddie had only been half listening, focused on the way Richie's gaze somehow felt soft and heavy at the same time, but he laughed. And as if spurred by the reaction, Richie launched into an exaggerated Don't-Worry-I'm-A-Professional voice, and started detailing all the  _ least  _ alarming things about the Neibolt house. Eddie tried not to laugh too loudly.

And then they were standing at Eddie's door, and Richie fell silent. For a moment, neither of them moved. Eddie thought back to the morning before, when he had woken up in Richie's arms, bathed in warmth and soft memories. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, but the feeling was easy to recall. Eddie found himself aching for it so completely that he couldn't quite catch his breath.

He almost just asked Richie to stay. The words formed on their own, and came rushing up his throat so fast that he wasn't even sure how they would sound in the open air. Then right as they reached his tongue he remembered Myra again, and they died there. Eddie had a wife, he was an  _ adult,  _ and he couldn't just crawl in bed with Richie like they were twelve because he was on the verge of a midlife crisis. So he said nothing.

Richie was still watching him, although there was no longer any chance of him falling down some stairs. Eddie couldn't read his face. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, like he was seeing something in Eddie that he couldn't quite believe. When he opened his mouth, Eddie's heart sped into a sudden wild rhythm.

"You're really okay?"

The question caught Eddie off guard, though he really wasn't sure what he had been expecting. "Uh, yeah," he stammered. "Yeah, I'll be fine." And then, because he realized that despite everything he wasn't often asked that question with such sincerity, he added a soft, "Thanks, Richie."

Eddie was certain he had never seen Richie smile like he did then—slow and small, gentle in a way that wouldn't have fit the younger Richie that lived in Eddie's memories nearly as well as it fit him now. It left him speechless.

"Well then, uh, I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" Richie adjusted his glasses, lifting them back up the bridge of his nose the same way he always had when they were kids. Eddie, struck dumb by a baffling cocktail of emotions, simply nodded. But as Richie turned toward his own room, Eddie’s voice rose up to stop him.

“Hey, Richie.”

He turned back expectantly. Eddie wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to say, so he gave it his best shot. “I’m glad you told us. Y'know… earlier.” He winced as the words fell flat, but Richie just smiled.

“My pleasure, Eddie Spaghetti.” And then he shrugged. “It was pretty long overdue.”

Eddie watched him shift on his feet, like a part of him wanted to run. He understood the feeling all too well. “Still,” he said, “you’re really brave, Rich.”

Richie gave him a startled look, and for just a moment, something seemed to crackle in the air between them. After a prolonged second, Richie choked out, “So are you, Eds.”

Eddie didn’t entirely believe that, but he offered a weak smile anyway. “Sure thing, Richie. Goodnight.”

Richie nodded slowly, and slipped into his room.

Eddie stared after him, unmoving. The dread had eased, but only because a different, indescribable ache had drowned it out. He briefly considered knocking on Richie's door, but shook his head at the thought and let himself into his own room.

He went through his nightly hygiene ritual on autopilot, and fell into bed. It was too quiet. Eddie had always fallen asleep to silence, but now the air was too heavy, and his thoughts spun wildly through the pool of his recovered memories. Tomorrow, he would return to New York, to Myra, to his job, and all he could think about was how incredible he felt  _ here. _ With the Losers, with Richie, he felt like maybe there was more than just overbearing concern, and denying possibilities for the sake of safety. Eddie felt like he could do anything with them. And he couldn't give that up again. Not after coming back to each other just as they had promised, and certainly not after everything they had been through. 

He wouldn’t lose them again.


	2. I Can't Get Used To Living Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie gets back to New York, and struggles to return to normalcy. The harder it gets, the more he figures things out.

Saying goodbye to everyone originally, one by one as they moved away from Derry and forgot, had been one of the hardest things Eddie had ever had to do, and now he had to do it again. Ben and Bev even came down from cloud nine to struggle as much as the rest of them. Though, Eddie noted, they didn't say goodbye to each other.

Stan flew back first, and then Bill. Mike had plans to go to Florida, and from there he would take a trip across the country, hitting all the spots he had never been able to see. They had set up a group chat, and he promised to flood it with pictures. Eddie wished he could go with him.

Eddie left not long after Bill, with Bev and Ben close behind. Richie would be one of the last to go, so Eddie wished him luck with his flight on his way out. Richie gave him a hackneyed Mile High Club joke in response. He rolled his eyes.

Then, just before Eddie headed for his car, there was a disjointed second of hesitation between them, as if all the easy familiarity he and Richie shared had run dry. Richie stuck his hand out awkwardly. Eddie found the thought of giving him a handshake so absurd that he scoffed. And with nothing else to do, Eddie pulled him into a clumsy hug.

Richie went stiff for a moment before wrapping his arms around Eddie tightly. Eddie blamed their height difference for the way his nose tucked into the crook of Richie's neck, granting him a lungful of shitty hotel bar soap and deodorant. And maybe the hug dragged on a few seconds too long, but they were best friends, and they had almost died, and Eddie didn't know when they would meet in person again. So he let it slide.

When he did pull away, Richie's cheeks were pink. He had a look in his eye that Eddie recognized as a barely restrained comment that even he was smart enough not to say.

Only now, Eddie really wished he would.

Instead, he grinned and said, "Does this mean I'm forgiven for the whole concussion thing?"

Eddie raised a brow. "Ask me again once I stop waking up with headaches."

Richie laughed, and Eddie thought it sounded stilted, but he wasn't sure. "Will do, Dr. K. Make sure to get lots of bed rest, and no strenuous activities—even if she begs."

He waggled his eyebrows. Eddie shoved him a little for good measure. Richie laughed a little more sincerely.

It was a much greater effort than Eddie ever would have expected to then walk out the door, but he did.

He spent the entire drive to Bangor feeling like he was headed towards his own execution, until he finally reached the airport and the traveling stress overcame his homecoming stress. Once he was on the plane, he tried to relax, tried not to think about what was waiting for him back home.

It was a losing battle. 

Instead, he spent a good chunk of the flight cursing the fact that he couldn't obsessively check the group chat. By the time the plane touched back down, he had nearly lost his mind. Then his phone chimed to life with messages from the other Losers:  _ "Just landed!" _ from Ben, and  _ "Haven't forgotten you all!"  _ from Bev, and a cheeky  _ "I miss all ur sexy faces already ;)"  _ from Richie. Eddie smiled, and felt the tension leak from his body just a fraction. The cab ride from the airport didn’t seem nearly as stressful.

But now he was standing at the door to his apartment, and he felt hollow.

He wasn't even sure how to approach the situation. Myra had been so hysterical when he left that Eddie could only guess how she would react to his equally sudden return. He hadn't even called.

After several slow breaths, and one more glance at the stream of messages from his friends— _ "fuck time zones,"  _ Stan had written, to which Bill responded with a few sighing emojis—Eddie slid his key into the lock.

For a breathless second, Eddie thought the apartment might be empty. He waited, and heard nothing, and started to relax. Then the sound of footsteps came rushing down the hallway, and he froze. Myra rounded the corner just as he shut the door behind him. When she saw his face, she went so pale that he half expected her to faint.

"Eddie-bear!" she screeched. Eddie winced at the nickname as much as the volume. "What  _ happened _ to you? Where have you been?"

Eddie opened his mouth to explain, only to realize that he really couldn't. What was he supposed to say?  _ "Well, dear, I was in my hometown of Derry with my childhood group of friends, both of which I forgot for 27 years because of an alien that takes the form of a circus clown and eats children. We made a blood oath to kill the fucker! Oh, my face? No, that was actually from an escaped murderer, but it  _ was _ a related incident. Also, sorry for not calling. I just really didn't want to." _

He never got the chance to think of a believable lie, though, since Myra scurried across the room and put her hands on his face. She pulled away the bandage a bit, and made a horrified  _ “oh” _ noise, putting a hand over her mouth. But she examined the stitches like she would have preferred to do them herself, and even though Eddie was desperately hoping she wouldn't, she said exactly what he expected her to say.

"Look at what happens when I'm not there to take care of you. You're so fragile, and I  _ told _ you not to go."

"Myra," he started. She wouldn't hear it.

"No, you don’t need to talk about it right away, Eddie, I know you must be tired. It's good you came back. I can take care of you while you recover from this, and you can forget all about whatever awful things happened. Come here."

She took him by the arm and led him slowly back to the bedroom with her other hand on his back. Eddie couldn't help thinking of Richie, reaching for him on instinct as he fought off a head rush, but never holding him up before he needed it. How had he managed to literally hold Eddie’s hand nearly the whole way through Neibolt, and never feel like a crutch? How had Richie saved his life without ever making him feel weak and useless like this?

Eddie had helped kill an ancient, reality-bending monster not even a week ago. He didn't need help walking to his bedroom as if he was old and feeble. But when he opened his mouth to say as much, Myra spoke over him.

"Let's get you tucked into bed, sweetheart. I'll make an appointment with the doctor for you, and call the office to let them know you'll be gone for another week or so."

"No, Myra, I'm fine," Eddie said. Because he  _ was _ fine, and the thought of lying in bed for a week with nothing but his own thoughts so soon after remembering his whole childhood, trauma included, made him want to tear out his hair. He would much rather go back to work, throw all his focus into numbers and statistics. He didn’t need to be coddled.

"Don't be ridiculous. Look at your face!” She gave him a pitying look. “Besides, you're so pale. I can't imagine what all that traveling has done to your immune system, especially when you’re already hurt. Airports are filthy places, dear, and you're so vulnerable to those kinds of things."

They reached the bedroom, and Myra nudged him down onto the bed. Eddie went, only because he wanted a nap anyway and he was too tired to bother fighting back against her.

"Don't you worry, Eddie-bear, I'll make you feel so much better you'll never want to leave again."

Eddie didn't say anything to that. Something rose in his throat like bile and cut off his words. In the fresh echo of his recovered memories, he could hear his mom saying nearly the exact same thing as she made his bedroom into a personalized prison cell.

Eddie had called that love.

And maybe it was Pennywise, or maybe it was his marriage, or maybe it was just Eddie finally relearning everything that he had figured out at thirteen, but he was starting to realize that love was a pretty fucking miserable thing.

Myra left and Eddie stared up at the ceiling. He was working towards a realization that he dreaded even before it had finalized in his head. For the last twelve hours, he had been working to convince himself that once he was home, missing the Losers would be easier, that his life in New York really wasn't that bad, he just didn't want his time with them to end.

Now he was here.

It still fucking sucked.

In fact, it sucked even more than it had before, and he couldn't quite figure out why.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he clambered to dig it out. He didn’t care how desperate he might have looked, fumbling it from his pocket in a mad race to talk to his friends, but it wasn't the group chat. Although he saw he had missed several more messages while he was talking to Myra, the most recent one was directly from Richie.

_ "Just got off the plane and I didnt even die can u believe it?????" _

Eddie scoffed, grinning as he typed his reply.  _ "Bummer. How was your luck with the MHC?" _

_ "Wouldn't u like to know ;)"  _ Richie returned.

Eddie laughed quietly, and felt the tension uncoil from his shoulders. He checked the group chat to find that Richie had announced his landing there, too, and everyone had responded but Eddie. So Richie, being the attention hog that he was, had come straight to him. It made Eddie smile even wider, enough that the wound on his cheek gave an unpleasant throb.

_ "I do know,"  _ he typed,  _ "because you definitely didn't do it, idiot. Nobody in their right mind would ever want to have sex on a plane." _

_ "U have no idea what I'm capable of Eds. Once I do the whole sweep u off ur feet thing youll understand" _

Eddie's fingers went a little numb before he could reply, his eyes catching on the stupid nickname.  _ Eds.  _ He had heard it every day throughout his childhood, and it had quickly made its reappearance in Derry, but seeing it written out next to the tiny picture of Richie's face was something else entirely. It was more real, more concrete than hearing it in a memory, like it was proof that the person he was to the Losers still existed even when they weren’t around.

Eddie felt a little ridiculous as a pocket of warmth grew in the center of his chest. He couldn’t even bring himself to tell Richie not to call him that.

Of course, he didn't get a chance to properly reply at all; Myra swept back into the room with a glass of water and the familiar orange shape of a pill bottle. Eddie sighed.

"Myra, I'm fine, I promise."

"You're hurt, Eddie," she responded dismissively. "That's what I'm here for."

"I can take care of myself," he muttered.

"Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart. Here, for the pain." She gave him a pill and waited for him to swallow it, smiling placidly. He did, and washed it down with the water, and laid back on the bed, and didn't pull away when she put her hand on his forehead. "What would you possibly do without me?"

Eddie's mind flooded with so many possible responses that he had to bite his tongue against them. Myra just kept reminding him of his mother, and all of the things he had said to her the closer he got to eighteen.

In the end, he said nothing at all, and he fell asleep angry.

* * *

The only thing that kept Eddie sane over the next few weeks as he readjusted to his life was the Losers. The group chat was slow some days, and others it would light up his phone for hours. Most of it was Bev giving updates on her and Ben's life, or Richie making stupid jokes, but after a couple weeks Mike sent the first of his promised updates: a photo of a brand new Winnebago. He captioned it with several emojis and a cheerful "GOODBYE FOREVER DERRY!!" Eddie's phone nearly vibrated right off his desk.

Between their texts and phone calls and group Skype sessions, Eddie never went long without speaking to at least one of them. Myra would eye him from across the room as he snapped to attention at the chime of his phone, but he didn't care. It was almost like they were kids again, pedaling across town on those afternoons that stretched too long just to play cards or watch movies or hang out in the Clubhouse together.

He talked to Richie every day. Usually from work, between meetings that seemed to stretch for hours and lead nowhere, but occasionally from home when Myra was being particularly unbearable. He had a way of uncorking Eddie and getting all his frustrations to flow out into the air. Mostly they bickered, but by the end of a phone call, or after a string of volleyed texts, Eddie always found himself a little more at ease.

"I’ve been extremely patient, because I have no idea how long it actually takes to recover from a  _ mild  _ concussion," Richie said at the start of one such phone call, "but I feel like it’s been long enough that you aren’t waking up with headaches anymore, right?"

Richie didn’t usually bother with normal greetings when he answered the phone. It was always straight into the first absurd thing he could think to say. Eddie was lucky to get a word in before him, whether he had initiated the call or not. Which wasn’t typically the case—usually he stared down at his screen for several indecisive seconds before deciding that ignoring the call wouldn’t be worth the eccentric voicemails Richie tended to leave.

"Well, not from the concussion," Eddie answered carefully. He was back in the office after finally convincing Myra that he was in good enough condition to return to work, and it wasn't exactly appropriate to be taking personal calls. Unfortunately, the backlog of cases from his abrupt time off was not helping him settle back in as much as he had hoped. In fact, his work only seemed to be adding to his growing malcontent.

"Great!" Richie said brightly. "So, am I out of the hot seat?"

"What?"

"Don’t "what" me, Eds. Have you found it in your heart to forgive me for recklessly pulling you from the jaws of death without all the proper safety gear or not?"

Despite himself, Eddie smiled. Weeks after defeating Pennywise and returning to New York, he was still struggling to figure out how the fuck to fit the two halves of his life together. Meanwhile, Richie was sending him stupid videos at weird hours and being the same general nuisance as always.

"No," he said simply, stifling laughter at the audible gasp that rattled back through the phone.

_ "What? _ Why the hell not?"

"Because all you did was wait for me to get better. It takes more than that to earn my forgiveness, you lazy shit."

"Oh, you mean like sending a care package, or maybe a nice flower arrangement?” Richie asked. “I actually know a place in New York that does those singing telegrams.”

Eddie made a disdainful noise. “Definitely not. You’ll have to think bigger than that, Trashmouth.”

"You want something bigger than a random stranger embarrassing you in front of all your coworkers?” Eddie could hear the grin on his face. “In that case, maybe something like, I don’t know, saving your life?"

He smiled. "Too easy."

Richie laughed, loud and long, and Eddie wished desperately that he could see the smile that went along with it.

"You’re a tough nut to crack, Eds," he chuckled. Then, after a moment he added, "You do feel better, though? Are your stitches out yet?"

"Yeah," Eddie sighed, running a finger over the thin bandage he still wore at Myra’s insistence. "The doctor says it’ll be a pretty mild scar as long as I take care of it properly."

"Eddie," Richie said gravely, "just this once, can you not do exactly what the doctors ordered?"

"Why?"

"Because imagine how cool it would be to have a wicked scar on your face like that! You could just tell people you got it from fighting a bear or something, and no one would ever fuck with you."

Eddie sighed. "Richie, I work in a fucking glorified cubicle farm. Intimidation isn’t really a huge part of my job description."

"It would be so cool, though," he insisted. "Just quit your lame job and become, like, an international art thief or something."

"Tell you what," Eddie said, "I’ll stab  _ you _ in the face, and you can neglect the wound to get a  _ wicked scar." _ He echoed Richie’s words in the most withering tone he could muster, but Richie just hummed in consideration.

"You know what? I’m gonna take you up on that offer, Eds," he said. "If you stab me, it’ll definitely make the concussion a wash."

Eddie’s laughter swept over him so suddenly that it stuttered out with a snort. He never used to laugh, before Derry. It was one of the things he had come to realize after coming back, how stressful and joyless his life was without the Losers. Missing them was a constant ache, as if his heart was making up for the 27 years of longing that it had missed out on.

And the highest debt seemed to be Richie's.

Even as the events of those harrowing few days in Maine grew distant, Eddie's head was still turning up fresh memories of curly hair, and coke-bottle glasses, and shit-eating grins. He and Richie had been inseparable up until Richie had moved away, crying on Eddie’s shoulder and swearing that he would never stop writing like the others. Of course, he had. But Eddie had left only a few weeks later, and had forgotten him in turn before his last letter ever came, so they had never really gone through the struggle of distance. It was one of the few benefits to losing their memories.

Or, at least, it would have been, if they weren't going through it now as grown adults.

Eventually, Myra did confront him about all the time he was spending on the phone. Despite being cleared for work, she was still over his shoulder constantly, breathing down his neck and making sure he took all his vitamins and medications. He had admitted to Bev only a few days before that she was driving him crazy, although she really wasn’t that much worse now than she had ever been. Bev had been oddly halfhearted in her reassurances. Eddie had nodded along anyway.

"Eddie-bear, you really shouldn’t be spending so much time glued to that screen," she said, taking an unexpected turn from their usual Myra-centric conversation topics.

Eddie looked up from the eighth pun Richie had sent him in less than a minute and bit back a sigh at the nickname. He had almost asked her to stop using it, but the words "don't call me that" got caught in his throat for reasons he hadn't bothered dwelling on.

"Sorry," he answered sincerely. He wasn’t typically one to look at his phone in the middle of dinner, but Richie had sent the stupid jokes so rapid fire that his phone had vibrated a good two inches toward the edge of the table. "It’s just a friend of mine from Derry."

"Derry?" Myra asked.

Eddie froze.

It wasn't until that moment that he realized how little she actually knew about what had happened in Maine, how little he had told her. They had talked about it, of course, but all she had been interested in hearing was a vague story about a mugging to excuse the injuries. She had taken it at face value, and in stride—he’d heard her talking about it with her friends like it was the latest plot hook in a TV drama—but it was the same minimally detailed bullshit that he fed to his doctor, and his coworkers, and his therapist, and anyone else he couldn't trust with the whole insane truth. 

Anyone including his wife, apparently.

Which was just absurd, because Derry had changed so much for Eddie that he had been struggling to fit back into normal life for weeks. Surely he must have brought up the Losers by now. He certainly thought about them often enough. Despite their issues, Myra was supposed to be someone Eddie could talk to, but most of their conversations revolved around visits to the doctor or the latest gossip between Myra's friends.

She had never even asked.

"My home town," Eddie explained, hoping his voice didn't sound as bitter as he felt. "That's where I was a few weeks ago. I reconnected with some old friends there."

Myra stared at him blankly for a moment, and then a slightly horrified look twisted her features. "You mean when you got attacked? Oh, Eddie, I'm not sure I should be letting you talk with those people."

Eddie nearly choked on his water. "What?"

"Clearly they weren't very invested in your safety," she said, "otherwise you wouldn't have been dragged into such a dangerous situation. They don't understand how fragile you are, dear. They’ll only get you hurt."

Eddie found himself stuck somewhere between disbelief and indignation. He thought of Ben, rushing into his room despite knowing Bowers could still be waiting there with a knife. He thought of Bev, so carefully patching his cheek with the supplies from Eddie's first-aid kit; Bill and Mike, holding an unshakable confidence in him; Stan resting a trembling hand on his back after he had frozen up in the Neibolt house.

He thought of Richie, the way he had clutched at Eddie's wrist as they ran through the tunnels, the way his body had surged up to pull Eddie out of danger, the way his eyes had sparked when he asked if Eddie was okay, like it was all that ever mattered.

Not invested in his safety? They had saved his  _ life.  _ And Myra hadn't even bothered to learn their names.

The food had turned to ash in his mouth, and the room was too quiet. A tightness was creeping over his chest, the familiar warning sign of a panic attack that he did not want to have in front of Myra.

Eddie stood up fast enough to make his chair stagger across the wood floor. Myra stared up at him, baffled.

“Eddie?”

There was too much he wanted to say, and every thought got tangled up in that persistent realization that he had been denying for weeks. So instead, already hearing his breath coming short, he took his keys, snatched his coat from the hook, and left. Myra barely had a chance to ask him what was wrong.

Outside, he sucked in several deep breaths of cool air. Fall was creeping around the corner, and Eddie was glad for his coat as a chill breeze bit at his fingers.

He opened his phone with trembling hands and scrolled through the group chat. The conversation had been mostly Bev today, sending pictures of Ben that were clearly meant to embarrass him. Richie had sent back a screenshot at one point, showing one of the pictures as his new lock screen. Ben, ever the gentleman, had complained that Bev was too photogenic for him to fight back. Bill had then sent a truly horrible image of Richie, halfway through an overly ambitious bite of pasta. Richie had called him a traitor. 

Eddie smiled. He thought he might start crying.

New York never used to feel so lonely, he thought as he let the crowd carry him aimlessly down the street. He had liked it here at some point, the freedom and the anonymity that the endless stream of faces provided. But now it was too big, an empty hole that Eddie was stuck in, alone.

He could have died in Derry. Richie didn't like to talk about it, but even if he hadn't seen it happen in the deadlights it would've been a long list of close calls. Yet he had lived, just to come back to a life more suffocating than all the fear Pennywise had ever conjured.

A life that apparently had no room for the Losers.

It made him itch with frustration; he might have gone the rest of his life never knowing how miserable he was, if not for Mike's call. Sometimes, in his more wretched moments, he told himself it would have been easier if he had never remembered at all. The thought always left him feeling like an animal in a cage, desperate to escape, but unable to find a gap large enough to squeeze through.

When Eddie finally made his way back toward his apartment, it was just past sundown. He debated calling Richie for most of the walk, some last ditch effort to avoid his life, but when he thought of talking to him about Myra his stomach clenched. Then, as he approached his building, his phone chimed again.

It was Stan.

He had sent them all a picture of a woman, smiling curiously toward the camera.The sun was beginning to set through the window behind her, casting her in a halo of soft orange light. There was a bagel in her hand, and cream cheese smeared across the tip of her nose, but despite that she was beautiful.

_ "My contribution," _ Stan said.  _ "Also I can't figure out why, but Patty says she's very excited to meet you all." _

Eddie's phone rattled around in his hand as the Losers lost their minds over her.

Stan's wife.

Eddie just stared at the picture, the way Patty smiled at the camera even though she was so clearly smiling because of the man behind it.

She knew about the Losers. She had watched Stan run off to Derry, scared beyond reason. She had seen him return bruised and battered. She had probably asked him about it without belittling him, and he had probably told her the whole story, down to the most dangerously unbelievable details. And now she wanted to meet all his closest friends, know their names, welcome them into her life, rather than accuse them of throwing her husband into danger.

And the thought that had been digging into Eddie's head finally broke through his denial with equal parts resignation and dread.

Somewhere along the way, he had fallen back into the same hole that his mother had dug for him years ago, only now it was Myra holding the shovel. His marriage was broken.

He had to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. So begins the spiral.
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and I'll be back soon with the next update! <3


	3. When I Walk Out That Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie has made a big decision, and it has a bit of a domino effect...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's just a little touch of homophobia in this chapter, courtesy of Myra. It's very mild but, y'know, fair warning.

As the realization settled heavily in his gut, Eddie started to panic again. And he was so sick of panic, so sick of fear and doubt. Bravery was no longer the priceless commodity that it had been in Derry, but he was still struggling to find it, and he didn't have his friends right there to clap him on the back and pep talk him every step of the way.

So, he did the first thing he could think to do. He called Beverly.

His hand shook as he found her number in his phone, but he sagged in relief at the sound of her voice a moment later.

"Eddie!" she cheered. "What's up, everything okay?"

The question wasn't really one of concern, but there was a sincerity to it that meant more than idle small talk. It was a common greeting among the Losers, for whom very little had ever been okay.

"Yeah, Bev, everything's fine," he said. An equally common lie given in response. "How's Ben?"

"Amazing." Her voice was wistful and love struck. Eddie could picture Richie gagging melodramatically, and he shook his head at the thought as much as the sentiment. "You know how it’s always been really easy to make him blush?" she was saying, "Well, I found out today that his dog is the same way. It’s like he knows. Tell him he’s a good boy in just the right voice and he does that thing where he puts his paws over his nose." She chuckled. "He's absolutely adorable."

Despite himself, Eddie huffed a laugh. "You mean the dog, or Ben?"

She laughed as well, an easy sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep, as if it had been locked away for awhile and was bubbling up from every part of her. Eddie felt the tension flooding out of him, and the words came along with it.

"Bev, I'm gonna leave."

Her laughter was cut short, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. Eddie inwardly cringed. He should have thought out his words more beforehand, shouldn't have called her about this in the first place. It was an impulsive and reckless decision, but he needed to talk to someone.

"Okay," she said carefully, "do you mean, like, New York or the whole country?"

He dragged a hand across his face. "I mean my wife."

There was another beat of silence.

"Oh, thank god," she uttered, the words crackling through the phone on a heavy sigh.

Eddie's hand dropped away from his face. "Bev?"

"Sorry, I know I shouldn't sound so happy about it, but you're clearly miserable with her."

"I—what?"

"Eddie, I've been listening to you vent about her for weeks," she explained, "and at the risk of sounding like Richie, she really does seem a lot like your mom. I wasn't exactly rooting for the best."

Eddie's fingers twitched with the urge to reach for his inhaler, which he had left behind in Derry and refused to replace. He didn't need it. He had never needed it. And yet he still scrambled for it every time his chest got tight, and hated himself for buying into the crutch, the weakness his mother had assigned to him, the habits she had fostered. 

With ragged breath, he leaned back against the apartment building and closed his eyes. Bev had gone silent, probably listening to the pace of his breathing and waiting for the telltale hiss of his sugar-pill relief.

"You know, I always thought it was me," he said quietly.

Bev made a small noise on the other end of the line, just to indicate that she was listening. A burn was building behind Eddie's eyes.

"Obviously things were kind of shitty at home, but she always said she was just trying to keep me healthy, and I… I believed her. Why wouldn't I? She was my mother."

"Eddie…"

"So it had to be my fault," he continued. "If I wasn't so sick and weak life would've been easier for both of us. She couldn't love me like other moms for the same reason Myra can't love me like other wives: she was too busy trying to keep me safe."

"Eddie, that is not true," Bev said firmly. "You're not weak or sick, and you don't need to be protected from anything. You can kill monsters, remember?"

Eddie gave a weak grunt of a laugh. "I know," he said, "but that's the problem. If it's not me, then what is it? Why am I so unhappy? Why don't Myra and I have what you and Ben, or Stan and Patty have?"

Bev didn't say anything immediately, her silence rendered inscrutable by the fuzz of the phone line. Eddie waited, but he wasn't sure what he was expecting.

"I don't know, Eddie," she finally answered. Her voice was barely above a murmur, a tone which made him think that perhaps she did know, but couldn't bear to say. "I'm sorry."

He heaved a sigh, letting his head fall back against the brick. "Don't be. It's not your fault that I'm having a fucking midlife crisis."

She hummed. Eddie tried to picture her face in that moment, the comforting smile, the concerned eyes. In a sudden loose thought, he hoped that she and Ben would hurry up and get married so Eddie had an excuse to see her in person.

"Well, on the bright side," she said lightly, "you have five different places to choose from when you leave. Or four, I guess. I don't know how comfortable Mike's place would be."

Eddie surprised himself with a watery laugh, and felt it loosen up some of the tension in his shoulders. "Do you think he at least sanitizes regularly?"

"Probably not regularly enough for you. But he would still be happy to take you in. We all would be."

He let out a breath. "Well, hopefully it won't come to that. Still got a job to worry about. But thanks, Bev."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Seriously. It's gonna get better, Eddie."

"I sure as hell hope so," he muttered.

The wind was picking up, slipping through his coat and biting at his skin. Myra was likely to do something absurd and dramatic if he didn't return soon, and although the simple act of spilling his thoughts to Bev had eased the panic, the thought of going back made his stomach turn. He tucked his fist deeper into his pocket and resisted the urge to find the nearest hotel, to leave now with nothing but the clothes on his back.

"Listen, I should really get back soon," he sighed, "but could you do me a favor and just keep this between us for now? Richie's never gonna let me live it down."

Bev chuckled. "Sure thing, Eddie Spaghetti."

"Oh god, fuck off," he groaned, earning another bubble of her infectious laughter.

"You'll call if you need anything, right?" she asked after a moment. "Any of us, I mean. I don't know what I would've done without you guys."

"Definitely," he said, surprising himself with how much he meant it. "I'll talk to you later, Bev."

"Night, Eddie. And good luck."

He waited for the line to go dead, pressing the phone to his ear like that might delay the inevitable click. He waited even longer to go back inside.

Myra was on the phone when he came in, pacing the living room. When she saw him she gave a long, exaggerated sigh and muttered something dismissive to whoever she was talking to, as if Eddie was a child playing at running away from home. He bristled at the tone.

"Eddie-bear," she cooed once the phone was hung up, "I thought something terrible might have happened to you!"

"I just needed some air, Myra. It’s fine."

She clicked her tongue and gave him a look that was probably meant to be concerned. Eddie could only see it as belittling. "Last time you ran off like that, you came back with seven stitches in your face. The world is a dangerous place, dear. You can't go running off like that."

He grit his teeth and silently counted to ten. "I’m tired. I’m going to bed."

This seemed to take Myra by surprise, though he could only imagine why. "What on earth has gotten into you lately, Eddie-bear?"

There were any number of ways he could answer that, although most of them were clown related. But the honest answer, the worst answer, was that he didn't really know.

"Goodnight, Myra," he said. He didn't wait for a response.

* * *

Eddie woke early the next day.

Unsurprisingly, he had ended up on the couch, which was fine by him. If it meant getting distance between him and Myra, then the sharp ache across his shoulders was worth it. Even that much independence was a relief.

He didn't usually get to the office until nine. When he pulled himself off the couch and stretched his stiff muscles it was barely six. His phone had less than half a charge. The first signs of a headache were throbbing at the base of his skull.

It was going to be a long day.

Bev had texted him some time after he had returned from his little venture, a short message of encouragement that had him smiling as he waited for his coffee. Richie had been messaging the group chat well into the night, wondering if  _ Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure _ was such a good movie "just because of hot dudes."

_ "Are you drunk?"  _ Stan had asked amidst the ensuing argument over whether or not it was a good movie at all.

_ "Maybe a little,"  _ Richie had replied,  _ "but that doesnt change the fact that bill s. prestons crop top is probably the reason I'm gay now." _

Eddie stifled a laugh and crept toward the bathroom. He was up anyway, and he would rather be at work for an extra hour than spend more time at home. Admitting he wanted to leave was a weight off his shoulders, but it had also turned his home into a prison cell that he had willingly walked back into.

He felt like a kid again, sneaking past his mother for a few hours of freedom.

Only now he wasn't working toward a movie with Richie, or a game night with the Losers. He crawled through the early morning traffic, tugging at his collar—Myra always gave it too much starch—and tried to ignore the lingering urge to keep driving until the city was far behind him. Eventually, his office building loomed in front of him, and he sighed.

From one cage to another.

In the light of his newfound desperation to get away from Myra, Eddie was finding it hard not to run from everything else, too. And he already knew—had known for a while, long before Derry—that his career was far from glamorous. Richie teasing him for it had been annoying mostly because everything he said was unfortunately true.

So, when his phone rang late in the endless afternoon, displaying Richie's grinning face, Eddie probably shouldn't have answered.

"God damn, Eds," Richie said, sounding both amused and impressed. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to make your job sound super lame."

Eddie hadn't meant to spend the first ten solid minutes of the call complaining about basically his entire career. As soon as he had heard Richie's voice—tinted with mischief like it had been since they were ten, and he'd figured out exactly how annoying he could be before Eddie got pissed off for real—it had just come tumbling out of him. Richie hadn't even cut in at any point with his usual bits of immensely bad advice.

"It's just been a long day," Eddie sighed, pressing the heel of his free hand against his eye.

"Sounds to me like you should ditch the place."

There it was.

"I'm not going to just quit my job, Richie." He shook his head and spun his chair to face the tiny window of his office. The stunning view of a single unremarkable skyscraper stared back at him. "It's really not that bad," he added with a sigh.

"Oh hell no, you can't go back on a tirade like that, Eds" Richie protested. "Face it, your job is the absolute worst, and you should bail before it turns you into the most boring person on the planet."

"Shut up, asshole. It beats getting laughed at for a living."

"Hey, I've been getting laughed at my whole life," Richie said smoothly. "Now I get paid for it. You're just jealous."

Eddie scoffed. "Richie, I wouldn't be jealous of you no matter how much I hate my job."

"So you  _ do  _ hate it," Richie said triumphantly.

Eddie stumbled over his words for a moment, struggling to find a response, and felt his face grow hot as Richie began to laugh. "Whatever, fuck you," he finally managed, "don't you have a stupid show to get ready for?"

Richie's giggling tapered off slowly, the hitch of it still clinging to his voice as he said, "Sure, but I've always got time for you, Eds."

Eddie ignored the way his stomach danced in response. It was a practice so refined that he hardly ever realized there was something he was ignoring at all. "Okay, so you're definitely going to be late then."

"The doors don't even open until like six. Relax."

"Oh my god, how do you still have a career?"

"Sex appeal, mostly."

Eddie rolled his eyes, and although Richie couldn't see it he knew the spirit of it was clear in his voice. "In that case, it's good that you're working on your own material, considering how much you love to talk about your own dick."

"Well, duh," Richie replied, sounding dangerously pleased, "it is  _ comically _ huge."

And despite his rapidly fraying patience, despite how close he was to tumbling over an edge of indeterminate height—and despite his considerable efforts to stop himself—Eddie fell into laughter. Somehow, Richie always managed that.

Richie cracked up along with him, but after a moment he went on in a voice that was just a fraction too casual. "Anyway, as hilarious as they are, the world's gotta wait a little longer for my highly personalized dick jokes."

"Wow, chickening out already?" Eddie replied, because when it came to Richie, he was no better at sincerity than the prepubescent idiot he had been when they first met.

"Oh, very mature, Kaspbrak," Richie said, his smile clear in his voice. "As it turns out, coming out to the public, firing your ghostwriter, and changing your whole routine isn't exactly an easy process."

"Not for chickens, it isn't."

"Fuck you." The words hopped through the phone on stifled laughter, and Eddie thought that maybe the effect Richie had on him was a mutual thing. "Y’know, there are parts of my contract that actually  _ forbid _ me from doing shit that "may result in bad PR." As if I'm not an old man joking about masturbation for a living." He sighed. "My hands are tied, and not in a sexy way."

"Hm. Chicken."

"Edward Jonathan Spaghetti," Richie said sternly, trying for indignant but losing the battle against his laughter. "You are being very rude. Your mother and I raised you better than this."

"That's not even my middle name," Eddie said, failing to hold back laughter of his own.

"I'll have you know," he added, ignoring Eddie’s interjection, "that I’ve been going off script for like ten minutes every show. It makes my manager homicidal and it probably puts my whole career at risk, but it’s my best option for stickin’ it to the man." He paused. "Also, I helped kill a demon clown. I don't even know any chickens."

Eddie's heart thumped. The reminder was almost jarring, as indirect as it may have been:  _ you're braver than you think.  _ It had been so easy to believe, coming from Richie, like he was only repeating the most concrete of facts. Like the idea of Eddie being delicate, or fragile, or weak had never even occurred to him.

Eddie wondered, in a wild, impulsive train of thought, if Richie had an extra room at his place. It was sudden enough to give him pause, and he hastily swept the thought into a dark corner of his mind where it would never resurface. Leaving his wife was one thing. Quitting his job, running across the country, and moving into his best friend’s bachelor pad was way more extreme than a midlife crisis could excuse.

Still, it hung in his head long after he had finally convinced Richie to get himself ready for his show.

He had told Bev he was leaving Myra, and he had every intention of doing so. But what was actually stopping him from the rest? Eddie had also helped kill that demon clown—had nearly died in the process—and what was the point of narrowly escaping death when his life was still suffocating him? His marriage certainly wasn’t the only stone on his chest.

The thought floated at the back of his mind, persistent, but deliberately ignored, for the rest of the day.

When he got home that night Myra was unsurprisingly short with him. He hadn't seen or spoken to her before he left, and they had definitely broken the cardinal "never go to bed angry" rule. It probably should have concerned him how difficult it was to care. She was still his wife, after all. But he just sighed inwardly at her clipped tone, and made a beeline for the shower.

Twenty minutes later he was tugging on a T-shirt and wondering how much work he could bury himself in before Myra insisted on a conversation.

The answer, unfortunately, was none.

He was barely out of the bathroom when she called his name in a tone so similar to his mother's that he froze up in half a second of vestigial dread. Once it passed, he dragged himself to the living room. She was waiting there with her arms crossed, her feet planted, and her brow pinched, looking every inch the beleaguered wife.

"Yes, Myra?"

"Eddie-bear, I need to talk to you," she huffed, voice pitching in a way that suggested tears if he didn't listen.

"Okay, what about?" he asked mildly. He knew how to handle her, at least, when she got in moods like this. It certainly happened often enough. They may have been going through a rough patch, but he could still give her the comfort that she needed. She deserved that much.

"You're still talking to those people."

He frowned. "What?"

"You know what I'm talking about," she insisted. And before Eddie could ask anything else, she held up his phone. He had left it in the kitchen after he got home, which he often did, but the look on her face made it clear she hadn't just picked it up to make a point.

The screen was unlocked, and the group chat flashed back at him.

"This is why you've been so off lately, isn't it?" she asked.

Eddie stared at her. "You read through my phone?" He hadn't yet landed on how he felt about it yet, but it wasn't good.

"I had to! It was going off after you went to sleep, and I had to know who was talking to my husband at that hour of night!"

That's why his phone hadn't charged. It should've tipped him off to something, but it hadn't. He was too focused on the grander misery of his life to care about small inconveniences.

He was dropping swiftly toward anger, but tried to steer himself away from it. It wouldn't help. If anything, it would only incentivize her.

In response, he muttered, "It's the different time zones, they’re all behind."

"I don't care," Myra cried. "I read your conversations, Eddie. Why are you telling these people all about our life? They're strangers, and it's not their business."

"They're not strangers, Myra, they're my friends," he said firmly, "and  _ my _ life is their business as much as I want it to be."

Her expression went sour. Eddie didn't miss the way her eyes darted to his cheek, the wound there still red and angry. His stomach dropped.

So that's what this was about.

"They are not your friends, sweetheart." Her voice dripped sweetly, honey laced with strychnine. "They let you get hurt."

Eddie grit his teeth. "They didn't  _ let me _ do anything, Myra. I did it all on my own. But they were there to save my life."

"They nearly got you killed in the first place, Eddie! Do you think I would ever put you in danger like that? That I would let you go to such a dangerous neighborhood at all?  _ I  _ would never let you get hurt,  _ I _ save your life every day!"

"Bullshit," he said, the word tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop it. Myra's eyes went wide. He didn't usually curse around her—she hated when he did—but he could practically hear Richie's delighted cackling in his head.

_ "Eddie," _ she hissed. "How could you say something so cruel?"

Ah, another classic Sonia Kaspbrak line, fucking verbatim.

"It's bullshit, Myra," he said again. He was losing the battle against a swift current of outrage, a tide that had been rising ever since he rediscovered his personal ties to the word  _ placebo. _ "It's all bullshit. You don't save me from shit. All you do is build up these conspiracies about everything, and then push that paranoia onto me like I'm some kind of doll for you to play doctor with. You're exactly like my fucking mother."

Myra reeled back in a truly soap operatic performance, hand to her heart, mouth hanging open, gasping melodramatically. "That is  _ enough," _ she snapped. "This conversation is over. You will not be talking to these people anymore."

Eddie's blood went cold despite the heat in his veins. As if he were a child again, helpless against the authority of such a threat, his anger bled into panic. "What?"

"They're bad influences."

"I can think for myself, Myra."

"Eddie-bear, look at how they've corrupted you!" She gestured to him, as if there were physical markings to prove her point. "They've been filling your head with awful, disgusting things for weeks, and now they've turned you against me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

With an irritated huff, she waved the phone in her hand, as if that was answer enough. When she saw in his face that it wasn't, she made a plaintive noise and shook her head.

"I read the conversations," she repeated, as if it was an article she had come across on Facebook rather than a casual violation of his privacy. "All of them arguing like children, and telling vulgar jokes. One of them is a  _ gay, _ Eddie!" Her mouth twisted around the word like it left a bad taste.

Eddie's vision went red.

"I know it's their influence that has you talking to me like that, I just know it! They are bad people. Stop talking to them—"

"I'm leaving."

She stopped for a moment, but then continued in a long-suffering voice. "You can't just keep running off, Eddie, it's dangerous."

"No, Myra,  _ I'm leaving." _

Her eyes narrowed, but he didn't wait for her to piece it all together. He turned away and moved to the bedroom. Myra had thrown out all the suitcases he had taken to Derry, making a fuss about the many different germs they had encountered, but there was still a set meant for her. He dragged one out and started throwing clothes in with none of the care he had the last time.

"Eddie? Eddie-bear?" Myra's voice echoed down the hall, sounding impatient. When she came through the door and saw what he was up to, she froze. "What are you doing?"

"I told you, I'm leaving," he said again. Adrenaline had already begun pumping through his system, giving him that jittery, fast-paced rush. He knew it was harsh to spring it on her like this, but he had the momentum now and he couldn't let himself lose it.

"Sweetheart, you can't!" Myra's voice rose in a panicked screech. "It's too dangerous, you'll get hurt again!"

"No, I won't. And even if I did, I could handle it without you."

"You're so fragile, Eddie! Do you really think those people could ever take care of you like I do?"

It was all he could do to hold back the flash of hot anger, the long-forgotten spiteful rage he had fostered throughout his years as an oppressively sheltered teenager. So delicate, his mother had said; so fragile, Myra insisted. Lies they told him in the name of some skewed kind of love. And maybe he would never really understand why it wasn't the same for him as it was for Bev, or Ben, or Stan, but he knew one thing with unshakable certainty.

Losers stick together.

Eddie had been trying to put his life back together for a month now, but it was as hopeless an effort as scooping toothpaste back into the tube. Because Myra hadn't changed, New York hadn't changed, his job hadn't changed. Eddie had lived like this for over twenty years, but like Richie had said, they had never been regular people; things weren't different now, for better or worse, just because of Derry, or Bowers, or Pennywise. No, the reason he was struggling wasn't the box itself. It was everything that had been in the box before—there was simply no room left for his friends.

So screw the whole damn package.

"I don't need anyone to take care of me, Myra. I'm a fucking adult." He zipped the suitcase shut, turned to face her, and plucked his phone from her hand. "And if you're going to make me choose between you and them, I am perfectly capable of making that decision."

She stared at him as he strode to the bathroom. Her silence stretched as he filled his toiletry bag, deja vu blending with adrenaline to make a manic sort of fever dream. The momentum had the reigns now, and it was all he could do just to hold on and see how far it would take him.

When he came back to the bedroom, she was crying in a frozen, shocked way. It was enough to make him hesitate for just a second, before he saw the hard glint in her eyes. Crocodile tears, nothing new.

"This is ridiculous," she said. "Where do you even plan on going?"

"Doesn't matter." Eddie hefted the suitcase off the bed and stepped past her. "I just can't stay here."

"What am I supposed to tell people, Eddie?"

He sighed. What would she say to the members of her book club, the people she saw at church, the neighbors, and the grocery store acquaintances? There was no one in New York, he realized, whose opinion mattered to  _ him. _

"Tell them we fought," he answered simply, "tell them we're taking time apart, tell them you kicked me out—I honestly don't care."

"Eddie!"

His heart was in his throat, his stomach somewhere far below his feet, and a roaring had built up in his ears. It was hard to tell if he was operating more on anger, or bravery, or just plain recklessness. Adrenaline, momentum.

"Eddie, stop," Myra wailed. He did, but only to tug on his shoes and his coat. "Why are you doing this to me, Eddie-bear? I love you!"

And there it was, all at once but nothing at all. It wasn't warmth, or comfort, or anything that might soothe the roiling need to run. It didn't make him want to take photos of her in the sunset, or tell her everything about his life, however unbelievable. Instead, it settled as a cold weight on the bow of his shoulders. With his free hand resting on the doorknob, he turned to face her one last time.

"I know you do, Myra," he said quietly. And for a moment he thought there might be more to it, but nothing else came. So, in Myra's brief, stunned silence, he left the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that happened. Once again, thanks for reading, and stayed tuned for the next one!


	4. The Way You Love Me Like You Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie leaves Myra. And then he leaves New York. And then he finds out that he's not the only one having a real hell of a day.

The next thing Eddie knew, he was on the street. The plan, as little of one as there was, had been to take his car and find a hotel nearby; ideally something that would keep him close to his job, and close enough to Myra that however things worked out, he wouldn't be on the other side of the city.

But his mind was working on an entirely different, inexplicable logic than it ever had before—suddenly he was hailing a cab, and when he opened his mouth to ask the driver for the closest place to stay, all that came out was, "LaGuardia, please."

It took less than an hour to get to the airport. Most of that time was missing from Eddie's recollection. He couldn't tell if this was a panic attack, or a more thorough, drawn-out mental breakdown, but either way, it was like watching from a distance as he bought the first flight out to Los Angeles.

It wasn't until he was on the plane and in the air that the fog cleared, and the momentum finally died. Rushing in to fill the vacancy was a surge of fully-charged, electrified panic.

In the half a day's span between realizing he needed to get away from Myra and tonight, Eddie had given the whole situation at least some thought. He had hatched the beginnings of a plan. There had been a vague picture in his head of how he would do it: sit down over dinner, try to steer the conversation for once, land the blow as softly as possible. Then he would leave, find someplace to stay, and the whole undoubtedly messy process could proceed from a breathable yet responsible distance.

Suffice to say, that plan had fallen through without ever really solidifying in the first place.

But it was one thing for plans to crumble. It was another thing to throw away the plan entirely. It was yet another thing to then instead take the most insane and irresponsible moves possible.

Eddie spent half the flight in the bathroom, tucking his head into his hands and counting out his breaths. The other half was spent in his seat, practically vibrating with anxiety and counting out his breaths. He was sure he looked insane, and maybe he was. Something had clearly snapped inside of him, because a fight with a spouse was no reason to  _ flee the fucking city, _ and hop on the first flight out to the  _ other side of the country. _

By the time he landed at LAX, Eddie was fully prepared to go straight back home, call Myra, apologize for everything, and then check himself into a hospital for brain trauma. Richie would never hear the end of it.

But then he was walking down the jet bridge, and that little bit of fresh air was warmer than New York, despite the late hour. It was an unexpectedly grounding sensation. He took several deep breaths of it as he walked, in an effort to stem the urgent feeling that lined every muscle in his body. Once he was past the gate, his phone sprang to life.

A whopping seventy-three missed calls, and nearly two dozen voicemails from Myra undid all of his careful breathing, and had him reaching for an inhaler again. But the rapid fire of several incoming messages drew his attention to the group chat instead. Desperate for a distraction, he opened the chain and scrolled up to catch whatever he had missed.

_ "Richie,"  _ Stan had sent a couple of hours after Eddie boarded his plane,  _ "what the hell did you do." _

Richie had responded several minutes later.  _ "Srsly its not a big deal" _

_ "According to twitter it definitely is,"  _ said Bill.

Richie hadn't responded to that, or any of the other concerned messages that followed. Eddie read through them with a growing sense of dread. Mike had eventually asked what happened, and Bev had sent back a screenshot from Twitter.

**So does anybody else at the** **_@trashmouthtozier_ ** **show tonight know wtf happened? Cuz all those gay jokes he made sounded a lot like he was coming out.**

Eddie nearly dropped his phone.

_ "Is that true rich??"  _ Mike had asked

_ "Talk to us Richie," _ Bill had said.  _ "Do I need to come over there and make sure you're not going crazy?" _

_ "Definitely not,"  _ Richie had finally answered.  _ "I just spent the last like 2 hours getting yelled at so I'm gonna go home get drunk and pass out don't @ me" _

The timestamp indicated that he had sent the message over two hours ago. He hadn’t said anything else since, despite the Losers' continuous messages. Eddie wanted to scream. All thoughts of buying a return ticket flew out of his head so fast he might've blacked out; next thing he knew he was outside the airport, climbing into another cab. It took him three tries to give the driver Richie's address.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, Eddie couldn't decide—traffic was flowing quickly. There was just enough time for the anxiety to boil up from his stomach and close off his throat, but not enough to pull him fully back into a panic attack. He sat in the back seat, reading and rereading the tweet, and Richie’s response. When the cab pulled over, Eddie gave the driver a hefty tip and stumbled out onto the empty sidewalk.

It was almost three o'clock in the morning. Eddie hadn't called anyone, hadn't spoken to Richie since their phone call in his office. The one where Richie had told him to quit his job. The one where Eddie had teased him for not coming out.

Maybe he wasn't the only one losing his mind.

He was shaking despite the warm weather, adrenaline and panic making his limbs into useless, jittery noodles. Before he could overthink it, he shuffled into the building.

It was actually surprisingly nice. Not exactly marble floors and a fountain, sure, but Eddie could tell he wasn't about to walk into the filthy little nest he had been picturing inadvertently over the last few weeks. The elevator took him up, the silent thirty seconds stretching into an eternity while he read the tweet once again, and then he found himself on Richie's doorstep.

That surreal sense of deja vu struck again. Halfway out of his mind, wondering what the fuck he was doing, and faithfully, blindly trusting the instinct to seek out Richie. Just like Derry, weeks and years before.

Eddie knocked on the door.

For a stretch, nothing happened. Eddie's stomach sank, and his mind quickly sought out the worst possible scenario: Richie was passed out cold, he probably wouldn't wake up, and even if he did, he wouldn't answer the door at 3 a.m. so Eddie would end up sleeping on a park bench in a strange city, catching pneumonia, and probably getting mugged for real, since karma so loves irony.

He knocked again, harder this time. It was more of a banging, really.

"Motherfucking shit, Bill! What, did you forget your fucking big dick pills or something? It's the middle of the goddamn—"

Richie was halfway through his string of curses when he whipped the door open, leaving Eddie's fist to wave awkwardly in the space between them. The words sputtered and died. His eyes went wide. He looked like a slack-jawed idiot, hair standing in wild curls, clad in a ratty old Queen t-shirt and sweatpants, and holding a Chinese takeout container in one hand.

It should not have been such an immense relief to see him. But suddenly the panic and anxiety that had been threatening to swallow Eddie for hours was easing. He could breathe again. Tension flooded out of his body. His heart skipped, and stuttered along to a less frantic rhythm.

And then the takeout container slipped from Richie's limp fingers, dumping sesame sauce all over Eddie's pants.

"God _ dammit,  _ Richie!"

"Sorry, shit, sorry," Richie stammered, crouching down to do something about the mess. "Fuck, that was the last of my chicken," he added dazedly.

"Oh, fuck you," Eddie snapped. He stepped past Richie, whose head whipped up to gawk at him. "Where the hell is your kitchen?"

"Uh, t-to your left."

Eddie set his suitcase by the door and hunted down a roll of paper towels. He tore one off and handed the rest down to Richie, who was plucking up the scattered chicken, and tossing it back into the box. When he stood, Eddie shoved his trash in on top of the food, mostly to make sure Richie wouldn't keep eating it like the Trashmouth he was.

"Where did you even get takeout at three in the morning," he said, moving toward what he assumed was the living room where hopefully there would be a couch that he could sink into.

"I didn't," Richie replied in that same bewildered tone, "it was still in my fridge from a couple days ago."

Eddie made a disgusted noise, but his response died in his throat. On the coffee table, glistening in the light of whatever show Richie had paused on the TV, was a half-empty bottle of bourbon. "Wait, have you actually been drinking this whole time?"

"No." Richie pitched the trash, still staring at Eddie like he wasn’t sure he was real. "I mean, not really."

Eddie raised an eyebrow at him.

Richie shook his head as if waking himself from a dream. "Bill stopped by to make sure I wasn't losing my mind, and he insisted on drinking wine and chatting for like an hour. Also, what the fuck are you doing here?"

Eddie sighed heavily, and sank down onto the couch. On an impulse, he reached forward to pour a few extra fingers of the bourbon into Richie's half-empty glass, throwing it back with a wince.

"Losing  _ my _ mind," he answered.

To his surprise, Richie laughed. Eddie turned to the sound and stared, feeling more of the ice in his veins break apart.

"Alright, that's cute and all, but it doesn't really answer my question." Richie disappeared into the kitchen for a second and came back out with another glass, sat down by Eddie and filled them both.

"So, did something happen?" he asked carefully. "I noticed that you kinda went dark there for a while. Although I guess that was probably the plane ride, huh. Jesus, I have so many questions right now, dude."

"Well, I don't have a lot of answers.”

"Fair enough." Richie shrugged without taking his eyes off Eddie. "Are you, like, okay?"

That was one of the answers Eddie didn’t have. He knocked the drink Richie had poured as quickly as the first, and waited for the burn to pass. "No? I don’t know. Are you?"

"Sure, why wouldn’t I be?" He smiled in a staged way that gave Eddie the rare urge to sucker punch him. At least he seemed to be moving past the shock. "I’ve got great booze, and a surprise visit from a sexy guy in the middle of the night. It's a Penthouse letter in the making."

Eddie rolled his eyes, and wondered if it was too soon to blame the heat in his face on the alcohol. It was strong stuff, and he always had been a lightweight, never mind that he hadn't eaten in well over twelve hours. "I read the group chat as soon as I got off the plane, idiot. I know what happened."

"Well fine, then you know I’m definitely not okay." Richie sighed and tipped back his own drink, then retrieved the bottle again to top them both off. "I don’t even know what happened. I just kept thinking about what you said on the phone, and asking myself what was  _ really _ stopping me, if it wasn't fear. Like, sure, you were joking, but it seemed like such a good fucking point." He sighed. "Next thing I knew I was making a bunch of dumb closet jokes and I couldn’t stop fucking talking."

Eddie watched him fidget with his glass. "It is a gift," he said absently.

Richie’s mouth twitched with a brief, halfhearted smile. "Well, this  _ gift _ just got me into a shitload of trouble. Which is nothing new, I guess, but it doesn’t leave a guy feeling very grateful. I think I’ve gone crazy."

"Richie," Eddie said slowly. He was exhausted, and jet lagged, and definitely starting to feel the effects of Richie’s undoubtedly expensive bourbon, and all of it was coming together to give him strange, vague thoughts about twin souls. "I left my wife."

Richie choked on his drink.

"What—" he wheezed, "you did  _ what?" _

"Shit, Richie, breathe," Eddie said, leaning over to pat his back as he coughed. "Did nobody ever teach you how to take a fucking drink?"

"You can’t just—!" His voice broke, and he fell into another fit. Eddie watched in horror as he picked up the bottle and took a swig, no longer bothering with the glass.

"Richie!"

"You _ left _ your  _ wife?" _

Hearing the words said back to him made Eddie want to panic again, so he looked away from Richie’s wide, watery eyes and shrugged. "Yeah."

"Holy shit, Eds."

"Yeah."

"When were you gonna tell me?"

"I'm telling you right now. It only happened a few hours ago."

"A few…?" Richie's brows drew together, and Eddie resisted the urge to make fun of him. "Right before you flew out here?"

Eddie nodded as his heartbeat picked up again. "We got in a fight after I got home from work. She was saying all this horrible shit, telling me to stop talking to you guys, and I… I don't know, I just left. It kinda happened all at once."

"So, you didn't plan any of this?" Richie asked haltingly, as if the dots were struggling to connect.

"Why the hell would I have planned to show up here out of the blue at three in the morning?"

"I don't know, traveling is weird?"

"No, Richie, I didn't plan this." He stared into his glass and tried to keep his breathing even. "Honestly, I wasn't even thinking. It was just one long string of reckless fucking decisions."

"Wow," Richie sighed, letting his head fall back against the couch. "Not gonna lie, it's kind of comforting to know I wasn't the only one being crazy and impulsive. Although, as much as I hate to say it, I think we're bad influences on each other, Eds."

The echo of Myra brought a bad taste to Eddie's mouth. "Shut up."

"Wait, did you actually quit your job, too?" Richie rolled his head to give Eddie a grin. "Are we two career-destroying peas in a pod?"

"I didn't quit my job, Richie," he said, exasperated. When the words caught up with him a second later, he added a horrified, "Oh, shit."

"What? What's wrong?"

"I didn't quit my job, Richie! I didn't even call, I just left! It's the middle of the week!" 

"Thursday isn't the  _ middle _ of the week," Richie said.

"I just ran away," he stammered. "I'm an adult with fucking responsibilities that I just ran away from faster than anything Pennywise could ever fucking dream of." It was the last little push he needed to fall back into panic. The feelings that had eased upon seeing Richie came back in waves, every bad decision he'd made over the last several hours rushing over him like the high tide. "Oh my god, I'm going to get fired."

"You're not going to get fired."

"Richie, I have to be back to the office in"—he glanced at his watch, which was still on east coast time—"two hours,  _ fuck." _

"Dude, playing hooky one day won't kill you," Richie insisted.

Eddie glared at him.

"Don't look at me like that, I still think you should quit."

"I'm about to throw you out of a fucking fifth floor window."

Richie laughed again, and somehow it was still a relief to hear. "I knew I should've taken the second floor unit, but I just had to have that balcony view."

"Can you fucking take this seriously?"

"No," he said delightedly, still grinning, "this is amazing! Eddie Kaspbrak, the  _ risk analyst, _ who yelled at me in freshman year for not color coding my notes, just snapped and disappeared without telling anyone. It's like something straight out of Dateline!"

"Do not start with the Keith Morrison voice, I swear to god," Eddie snapped.

Richie barked a laugh like it had been startled out of him. "Holy shit, you remember that?"

"Of course I remember, idiot, you did it constantly when we were kids, and you were not good at it."

"Well, Derry's a fucking magnet for weird murders, Eds, how could I  _ not _ do Keith Morrison all the time?" He smirked. "And I've gotten a lot better since then."

Eddie shook his head, swallowed the rest of his drink, and grabbed for the bottle Richie still held. "I never should have come here."

"Yeah, I'm still trying to figure out why you did."

Eddie looked up from refilling his glass. The words had the cadence of a joke, but while Richie was a masterclass in smoke and mirrors, it wasn't always impossible to parse out sincerity from the bullshit. His smile had gone just a bit stiff. He was no longer looking at Eddie, instead letting his eyes wander restlessly about the room.

"Why wouldn't I?" Eddie asked. Richie glanced at him briefly, and shrugged.

"I don't know," he said, "maybe because I live three thousand miles away from you, and six weeks ago you didn't even know who I was?"

Eddie found himself offended, and the feeling was enough to make him forget some of the stress he was under. It occurred to him then, that the thought he’d had in his office that afternoon had never really died. In fact, seeing Richie had been the only thought in his head that had been at all clear throughout his flight from New York. The decision to come to him, as crazy as it may have seemed, had never actually been on the list of Eddie’s many irrationalities. Putting it there seemed almost blasphemous.

"I always knew who you were, dipshit," he said sharply. "I may have forgotten about you, but I still knew you. And I would have come to you whether I planned all of this or not. I always come to you."

Richie stared at him with wide eyes, lips parted silently for a moment before he choked out, "Wait, really?"

"Yeah, really! I always have. You're my best friend, Richie, and I… I missed you." The edge bled out of his voice suddenly as the words settled in the air. He hadn't realized exactly how true they were until then. "God, I missed you. The whole time, I think, even when I didn't remember. I just—I felt it, y'know? Like I had lost something really important."

He looked to Richie with a creeping urgency. It wasn't a feeling that could easily be described, the indefinable logic of Pennywise's power, but it was suddenly extremely important to him that Richie understood.

Richie stared at him the same way he had when they parted ways in Derry, like he had so much to say that it was splitting him apart, but he wasn't saying any of it.

"Yeah, I get it," he finally muttered, his voice pitched low in a way that made it perfectly clear, despite whatever words he wasn't saying, that he really meant it. "I missed you, too, Eds. Like a fucking limb."

Eddie sucked in a breath and realized quite suddenly that he was about to start crying. It was a little horrifying, but the embarrassment of bursting into tears was nothing compared to the helpless outrage that had caused him to. He closed his eyes against the burn and cursed.

"I fucking hate that I forgot, Rich," he hissed. "It's all the same shit with Myra, and I should've seen it sooner. You and the others are the only reason I was ever able to stand up to my mom, and then I lost you and it started all over again. I could've been coming to you like this for the last twenty years, and then maybe I wouldn't have fallen back into the fucking cycle in the first place."

"Eds…" Richie's voice was strained, as if he was fighting back tears of his own. Before Eddie could open his eyes to see, Richie was pulling him into a tight hug. "Look, I know you’re upset, but don't pretend you would've taken any of my advice."

The air rushed out of Eddie's lungs all at once in the form of a watery laugh. He was supposed to jab back at that, kick up the bickering again and return to familiar territory, but the words would no longer come. Richie's hands were rubbing idle, comforting circles on his back. Eddie's face was halfway tucked into his shoulder.

Prior to his return to Derry, Eddie hadn’t been hugged in years. It should have been awkward and uncomfortable, but it wasn't, because Richie gave better hugs than anyone else Eddie knew, and it turned out that he had really fucking needed one. So, instead of calling Richie an asshole, Eddie wound his arms around him, buried his face a little further into the crook of his neck, and replied with the only thought left in his muddled mind.

"I don’t want to go back to New York. Not yet."

Richie took a slow breath and held him tighter. "Awesome," he breathed, the word sliding warmly through Eddie's hair, "you can stay with me as long as you need. Or as long as you want, I guess—if you want to at all."

"I want to, idiot," Eddie said. "What, do you expect me to sleep in a hotel? I came here for you, remember?"

Richie laughed softly. It puffed against Eddie's ear, making him feel warm straight down to his core. "Right, right," he murmured, and then continued in a grim voice,  _ "Eddie Kaspbrak was a simple and unassuming man from New York City." _

"What the fuck did I say about Keith Morrison?"

_ "His job was to analyze risk," _ Richie went on, ignoring him,  _ "but there was one risk he never saw coming." _

Eddie laughed and shoved Richie away, watching him fall back theatrically onto the couch cushions. "Beep beep, Richie. I'm too fucking jet lagged to deal with you right now."

"Oh, my apologies, good sir," Richie said, now in a posh British butler voice. "Let me show you to your chambers for the evening."

Eddie watched him stand and stretch, raising his arms above his head. His t-shirt was too old and too small, so the movement had nearly half of his stomach showing. Eddie once again dismissed the warmth in his face, but his eyes stayed glued to the curve of Richie's hip bone.

"You're better at cockney," he muttered. Richie grinned back at him and offered a hand to help him up.

It turned out his "chambers" were just Richie's bedroom. Eddie eyed the bed dubiously despite being dead on his feet, because beggars could, in fact, be choosers no matter what anybody tried to say otherwise.

"When was the last time you washed your sheets?"

Richie made a show of thinking about it. Eddie turned to leave.

"Oh, come on, Eds," he laughed, "I may be the Trashmouth, but I'm not a complete slob. The sheets are clean. Now, did you bring a change of clothes with you, or are the cute little outfits sold separately?"

Eddie chuckled, although he really tried not to. "Obviously I brought my own. Not that you could afford me either way."

He was rewarded with one of Richie's best laughs—the one that stumbled out of him, loud and a bit high pitched, punctuated by a little snort. It was goofy, and sincere, and so utterly  _ Richie _ that Eddie couldn't even laugh along with him for the sudden lack of air in his lungs.

They got ready for bed together, and even though Eddie was beyond tired, he found himself taking longer than usual to get through all of his pre-bed rituals. Richie stood next to him, making faces in the mirror and narrating Eddie's whole process like a nature documentary. Eddie kept having to stop to laugh, or tell him to shut up, or both. It took him almost ten minutes just to floss.

So, it came as a surprise when, once they were finished, Richie said through a yawn, "Well, you know where to find me if you need anything."

Eddie stared at him as he moved back toward the living room. "Wait, you're gonna sleep on that puny little couch?"

"Ooh, careful there, Eds," Richie answered, grinning over his shoulder, "I wouldn't go throwing around the word  _ puny _ if I were you."

Eddie rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure why he even bothered, Richie was so goddamn dense. "Whatever. It's your backache to wake up to."

For a brief second, Richie's smile faltered. He stared at Eddie, eyes dark and glossy behind his glasses, that thoughtful look back again. As a kid, Richie had never been serious enough to be entirely vulnerable or honest about certain parts of himself, but in every other way, he had been an open book. This clear uncertainty about saying whatever was on his mind was a new feature, exclusive to Adult Richie, and frankly Eddie hated it.

"I've been sore from worse," Richie said finally, fixing a tired smirk back onto his face. "Nighty-night, Spaghetti."

It was torture, not knowing what he was thinking.

"Goodnight, shithead."

Richie padded back down the hall, and Eddie stared at the space where he had been. It really shouldn't have mattered. He shook his head, too tired and too strung out to dwell on the complexities of a relationship that had survived Derry and all that entailed, and trudged into Richie’s room.

It didn't take long to fall asleep. He was out only moments after he settled beneath the covers. But in those few foggy moments before sleep dragged him into its current, Eddie did dwell on it. Because Richie’s sheets smelled just like his bedroom in Derry, so many years before. The scent stirred up memories in such multitudes that they simply bled into a feeling, a sense of comfort, familiarity, security.

Eddie might never have admitted it in the light of day, with a clear mind and a sober tongue, but Richie was the only person who had ever made him feel that way. He had known as much even back then, on some level at least, but had always been afraid to look at it too closely for fear that he would realize something he couldn’t take back.

And he was scared now, too. Scared because he wanted that feeling again, badly enough that a dull ache grew beneath his ribs. He wanted Richie to be there next to him, tangled around him like all those times in their childhood, like that night in the Townhouse when Eddie had felt safe for the first and only time throughout that whole ordeal.

Then he fell asleep, and the fear washed away along with the pain pulsing in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bill Hader references? In MY characterization of Richie? It's more likely than you think...


	5. Free From Your Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys spend Eddie's first day in LA trying to save their respective jobs, buying fancy groceries, and maybe kinda having a little bit of a dinner date (not that they would call it that). But either way, it gives Eddie the courage to face the reality of his marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, we have another unfortunate appearance of Myra's homophobic bullshit, folks, but it's barely as bad as it even was the first time.

Eddie woke up with the sun on his face, feeling more rested than he had in months. He came awake slowly, keeping his eyes shut against the light, breathing in the warm, sun kissed air. For a moment, he thought he might be dreaming of Richie.

Then the memories of where he was and why, of the entire hellish events of the day before rushed in to remind him.

"Shit," he whispered. On a silent count of three, he forced his eyes to open. The clock on the nightstand read a stomach-turning 12:13.

"Shit!" Eddie rolled out of the bed, taking half the sheets with him. Richie had hauled his suitcase into the room last night while Eddie had changed his clothes, and he thanked him silently as he fished out his cell phone from the front pocket, where he had stored it after Richie's chicken fumble. 

It was dead.

And to make matters worse, as he shuffled frantically through the suitcase he realized that in his rush to leave his apartment he had failed to pack a charger. He cursed again, more colorfully. An anxious sweat was starting along his spine as he shuffled into the hallway. He found Richie in the kitchen, already awake, making way too much noise, and just as much of a mess.

"The fuck are you up to in here?" Eddie said in lieu of greeting. Richie flinched so hard he nearly dropped the spatula he had been waving around like a baton. He twisted around to face Eddie, and winced.

"Jesus mother-loving  _ Christ, _ Edward! What are you, the grim reaper? Lurking around, waiting to steal my soul?"

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Says the guy who flew all the way across the country just to give his best friend in the whole world a fucking  _ heart attack _ in his own kitchen! We have the same clown trauma, for fuck’s sake!"

"Well, excuse me for not stomping around like an overgrown moose. What do you want me to do, wear fucking bells on my shoes?"

"Of course not, that would be ridiculous." Richie grinned. "I was thinking one around your neck. You know, like a little kitty cat."

"Oh my god. Do you have an extra fucking phone charger?" Eddie snapped in a desperate attempt to stop himself from cracking a smile.

Richie started another jab, but stopped. He turned again to look at Eddie, shifting his whole body in an awkward twist. "You didn't bring one?"

Eddie scowled at him.

"Holy shit," he continued, a slow smile blooming, "Eddie fucking Kaspbrak came unprepared? Have the pigs taken flight yet? Somebody call Hell, we need to get a quick weather reading."

"Richie," Eddie snapped, "for real, my phone is dead, and I have a whole circus of shit to deal with right now."

Richie kept grinning, but gestured to one of his kitchen drawers without further teasing. Eddie dug out a charger, plugged it in next to the coffee machine, and glared down at the little empty battery icon that appeared on the screen.

"What's that old saying?" Richie wondered after a moment. "'A watched pot never boils,' or something like that?"

"Don't even start with me, Richie."

"I made breakfast. Not sure if you noticed. You seem a little on edge this morning."

Eddie sighed, admittedly only just realizing how incredible the food smelled, and how hungry he actually was. Reluctantly, he turned away from his phone to watch Richie pile pancakes onto a plate.

"Since when can you even cook?"

Richie laughed, and gave Eddie a look. "I'm a man of many talents, thank you. Also it turns out pancake mix is basically the simplest shit in the entire world."

He handed over a plate, and Eddie took it with a raised eyebrow.

"You can get sick from under cooked pancakes, Richie. Are you sure they're done? I'm not about to get stuck in the hospital on top of everything else just because you think you know how to cook when you really don't."

"Eds," Richie cut in, laughing again, "dude, relax. The instructions are literally printed on the box. Like I said, simplest shit in the world." He turned to the bottle of syrup sitting among the mess he had made, and his face screwed up again briefly.

Eddie narrowed his eyes. "Okay, what the hell's wrong with you?"

"God, I forgot how sweet you are sometimes," Richie sighed dreamily. "You're like a gentle mother hen—"

"Seriously, Richie, I'm not blind or stupid. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He shrugged, focused intently on the unhealthy amount of syrup he was dumping onto his pancakes. "Just a little crick in my neck, is all."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he huffed. "I told you—"

"Yeah, you told me so, I know." Richie rolled his eyes, smiling just a little. "But it's a good host's job to make sacrifices. Did  _ you _ sleep well?"

Eddie opened his mouth to yell at him, reconsidered, and instead grumbled, "Yeah, actually. But that's not—"

"Then I regret nothing. Fuck off."

With that, he hopped up to sit on the countertop, his own plate balanced on his lap. This, of course, led into another argument about sanitary kitchen spaces, and where Richie's ass was and was not allowed to be. And that led to Eddie, red-faced and failing to hold in his choking laughter while Richie made overly elaborate philosophical remarks about free will and bodily autonomy.

They bickered about doing the dishes too, when the time came, eventually forming a little chain with Eddie washing and Richie drying. In the end, it was well over an hour before he thought to check his phone again. Richie was halfway through an anecdote about some kid he saw on the bus when he first moved out to LA, when Eddie finally remembered New York. And his job. And all the trouble he was in.

He shoved the last few wet forks into Richie's hands, and managed to refrain from scrambling. Unfortunately, once the phone was powered on, there was no way to hide his anxiety.

Myra had been calling all day, apparently. It wasn't surprising, but the predictability was in no way soothing. Much more unsettling, however, were the several messages from work. Eddie could tell just from the push notifications that they were not well wishes.

"Yikes. That the boss?" Richie asked, peering over Eddie's shoulder.

"Not exactly. But I guess it might as well be."

Richie made a harmonic little  _ 'oooh'  _ noise, the same way he had in school whenever Eddie had been called to the principal's office over the intercom. Not that he had ever actually been in trouble then, and not that Richie—along with everyone else in the room—didn't know that it was just Mrs. Kaspbrak,  _ again,  _ with some wild new diagnosis. It had never been funny. But Eddie had always kind of appreciated it, in the same way that he appreciated any of the Losers when they managed to make him feel like a normal kid for even a second.

Still, Eddie shoved an elbow into Richie's ribs, and grinned at the little huff of air that cut the sound short.

It took the next three hours for Eddie to negotiate his stay of execution. Three hours of being yelled at, and then passed off to someone else who would yell at him again. Mostly the process was long-winded emails and phone calls, interspersed with strings of colorful language, while Richie offered unhelpful suggestions like "just tell 'em to fuck off," or "say you're in Vegas, bosses love that."

Eddie managed to stop his immediate termination with some lie about a freak accident involving a close friend, which really wasn't entirely untrue; at some point during the whole fiasco Richie had stepped out to call his own manager in solidarity. Eddie thought he must have been gone for the better part of an hour, but at the time he had been preoccupied with the fifth Assistant Director Whatever, so he couldn't be sure.

In the end, they gave him the rest of the weekend. If he wasn't back by then, he would officially be fired.

At the end of that final phone call, he sank against the couch with a groan. Richie sat up from where he had stretched out with his laptop and adjusted his glasses.

"So? What's the verdict? You headed for the chopping block?"

Eddie rolled his eyes. "No."

"Home free," he cheered. "It was that classic Kaspbrak charm that did it, I'm sure."

"Fuck off."

"Yep, certainly works on me."

"I'm not home free," he said, ignoring Richie's easy smile, and easier words. "I have to be back by Monday or I'm done. And either way they're giving me three months of probation."

"Seems a little harsh just for taking an early weekend."

"This is the second time I've done this in a month, Rich. Not all of us can just ditch work whenever we want, no questions asked." He narrowed his eyes at Richie.

"No questions asked?" Richie barked a disbelieving laugh. "Tell that to the tabloids. And my manager—he definitely had questions."

Eddie relented at that. Richie was joking, mostly, but Eddie hadn't missed the look on his face when he had come back from his own call.

"Did you tell him you were in Vegas?" he asked, earning a delighted smile.

"Atlantic City, actually," Richie replied. "I figured the timing would work out a little nicer."

"Wow, you really thought it out."

"I've had a lot of practice, Eddie my love." He fell back again, settling into the couch as he spoke. Eddie let him, distracted briefly by the warm sensation that spread through him. Richie hadn't called him that since they were sixteen. 

After a moment, he shook the thought away and shoved at Richie's legs. "Seriously, what did you tell him?"

"Mostly bullshit." Richie stretched out further in retaliation, digging his heels into Eddie's thigh. "I said it was an emergency. Poor Mrs. K was dying to have me."

Eddie pinched the hair on Richie's calf and pulled until he squirmed.

"Ow! Okay, fine! I told him the truth."

Eddie stopped. "You didn't."

Richie moved his laptop onto the coffee table and sighed at the ceiling. "I did. Not all of it, obviously, just the stuff about the promise, but I did."

Eddie's hands had gone limp against Richie's leg as he stared. The truth could be a dangerous thing for the Losers. "Richie…"

"I don't think it matters though." He stretched out again, letting his feet settle in Eddie's lap this time. "It's not like I was giving out all the details. I'm pretty sure he still thinks I was on some weird bender either way. After last night, he probably just thinks it was a weird gay sex bender, and it awoke something in me. Which isn't really wrong, I guess, at least with regards to the supernatural amnesia."

"Richie," he repeated, cutting off the rant. "What did he say?"

Richie gave him a look somewhere between affectionate and irritated, and Eddie recognized it instantly from a thousand memories. "Not much, really," he said in a voice to match. "He ranted for like fifteen minutes about demographics, and publicity, and some other buzzwords I can't remember."

"So how much trouble are you in?"

"I don't know." He shifted, sinking a little closer to Eddie. "He has a meeting set up on Sunday. I think that's when they're gonna tell me if my career is over or not."

"Fuck," Eddie breathed.

"Yeah, I know. I have to get up early on a fucking Sunday, it's the worst. I'm finally gonna understand how church people feel."

"I can stay," Eddie said, surprising both of them. Richie made a faint noise and lifted his head, eyebrows raised. "I mean, for the weekend," he added. "If you want a distraction from waiting."

"That…" Richie stared at him for a moment, before shaking his head. "Shouldn't you be booking it back to New York for your job?"

He should be. If he got on the next flight he could be back by tomorrow morning, work through the rest of the weekend, and hopefully win some points back in his favor. He might even be able to talk them down from the probation.

But Richie was propped up on his elbows now, staring at him the same way he had on his seventeenth birthday, after Eddie had snuck out past curfew to celebrate with him. The Lucky Seven was down to three by then, and Stan—like Bev, Ben, and Bill before him—would stop writing only a week later. Richie had been worrying himself nearly sick about it since the day he left. Eddie's mother had finally put her foot down about his friends almost a year before, so he had only managed to slip out once she was asleep, but Richie didn't seem to mind that he had missed the party. He spent the rest of the night teaching Eddie how to play Mega Man until they passed out on the couch. And a week later, when no letter came from Stan, they did it all again. Sonia might as well have put bars on the window afterwards.

If he could go back, Eddie would have played video games in Richie's basement every night, consequences be damned. And that was excuse enough without having to admit that he wasn’t quite ready to face Myra again.

He let his hand come to rest just above Richie's ankle, curling his fingers as if to hold him in place. "Not if you're gonna spend the whole weekend jacking up your blood pressure," he said.

Richie swallowed, blinking at Eddie's hand a few times with the glazed look of a sudden memory. Eddie waited for the moment to pass—they could still be pretty overwhelming sometimes—but cut him off when he started to grin.

"That's not the only thing I'll be jacking—"

"Actually, maybe I should just kill you myself." Eddie yanked at his leg hair again, and shoved him away as he giggled.

"I mean, you came all the way here for something," he said, which was enough of an invitation for Eddie to sink into the couch a bit and wonder at his own relief. Then Richie sat up again, grinning as he knocked their shoulders together. "How about I show you around the city a little? Might as well get a little vacation out of this whole thing."

"It is not a vacation." Eddie ran a hand through his hair. "It's just Derry happening all over again."

"Wow, okay, I know my place isn't exactly the Palace of Versailles, but that's a bit harsh."

"You know what I meant."

He smiled. "C'mon, Eds. Give yourself a break. You obviously need it."

Eddie tried to glare at him, but couldn't muster the usual heat to put into it. Two days. He could stay through the weekend, leave a couple hours after Richie's meeting, and still be back to New York by the deadline. It would probably even be better in the long run to blow off some of the steam that had driven him here in the first place.

"Alright, fine," he sighed. "There is actually something I really want to see while I'm here."

"Yeah?" Richie was beaming now, and Eddie's heart did a fluttery little dance. "Let me guess—Disneyland?"

"Nope. Farmer's Market." He poked the crease that formed between Richie's brows and shoved his head back. "If I'm going to be staying here for more than six hours, we're stocking your fucking fridge."

* * *

Eddie couldn't tell if LA was actually any better than New York—it was still crowded, dirty, and loud, with too much traffic—or if it was just Richie's color commentary that made all of those things more tolerable. They walked to the store, which was only a block away, and he took every minute of the trip to either argue with Eddie about whatever came to mind, or speculate wildly about the lives of strangers on the opposite sidewalk. It was probably the most entertaining shopping trip Eddie had ever taken. Although, as he wandered up and down unfamiliar aisles, he began to realize just how long it had been since he had taken one at all.

"You dragged me here on a  _ Friday night," _ Richie groaned from behind him, "and you don't even know what to get."

"Fuck off," he snapped in return, squinting up at the signs for each aisle. "I haven't been grocery shopping in like ten years, just give me a minute to get my bearings."

"Myra did  _ all _ of your shopping?"

"She prefers it that way," he said. Which was true, technically. It was more of a demand than a preference, but Eddie had really never minded enough to be bothered with it. Still, Richie sucked in a breath through his teeth and cringed, a nonverbal  _ yikes. _

"Gotta say, Eds, I wouldn't have expected a twenty-first century man such as yourself to be so deeply entrenched in gender roles."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure she would be just as gung-ho about monitoring my sodium intake if the roles were reversed."

Richie gave him an odd look, smiling, but not quite laughing like Eddie wanted him to. He shrugged. "Alright then, since it's your vacation—"

"It's really not."

"—what do  _ you _ want? The most heart-clogging monstrosity you can think of, the kind of shit you never get to eat?"

Eddie thought for a moment. It was true he had never cared much about the food Myra brought home, for better or worse. It was healthy, it was safe—it was a lot of the same kind of stuff his mother used to buy. Which was horrifying enough without the struggle of trying to remember the last time he had eaten something he actually enjoyed.

"I learned how to make really good homemade pizza back in college," he said eventually. He hadn't been in college for almost twenty years, and these constant realizations of his stifled lifestyle were getting exhausting.

But Richie grinned like the idea was exactly what he wanted to hear. "Thirty years worth of supernatural clown amnesia, and I still get to see how Eddie Kaspbrak lived in college." He threw an arm across Eddie's shoulders. "It's like we're defeating Pennywise all over again."

"If I get another concussion I am definitely going to sue."

And then Richie did laugh, loud enough that strangers turned to stare.

Eddie managed to round up enough food for the weekend, and by the time they hauled it all back to Richie's apartment the sun was beginning to set. Richie insisted on helping Eddie with the pizza, so of course they made an absolute mess of the kitchen before it even made it to the oven. They ate on the couch. They fought about what to watch. Eddie forgot, for the next few hours, that he wasn't technically on vacation.

By the time they were finishing their second movie ("You can’t just watch one _Austin Powers_ movie, Eds." "I didn't want to watch any, dickhead.") Eddie was drifting. Richie poked his side and laughed softly when he jumped.

"Dude, you're falling asleep."

"Shut up, I'm not even tired," Eddie said, feeling like a kid again as he spoke. "I woke up at noon."

"Sure, but isn't it like midnight in New York?" Richie smirked. "That's a little past your bedtime, old man."

"You were up at 3 a.m. last night."

"Yeah, but I'm a party animal." He shrugged.

Eddie narrowed his eyes. "How's that ache in your neck?"

"I've already killed it with loads of cocaine, man, I'm raring to go."

Eddie reached out to cup his hands against Richie's cheeks. His playful smile faltered at the touch, eyes growing wide behind his glasses, but Eddie didn't stop to question it. In a swift motion, never breaking eye contact, he swiveled Richie's head enough to twist his neck, and smirked when he leapt away with an undignified yelp.

"You son of a bitch," Richie said, laughing even as he rubbed at his neck.

Eddie shook his head and tried to keep a straight face. "Come on, then. If I'm going to bed, so are you."

"Eds—" Richie started. Eddie dug his heels in. He only vaguely remembered his feelings as he fell asleep the night before, but it was enough to make him stubborn about it now.

"Look, if it means that much to you, we can call your mom tomorrow, and I'll tell her all about what an upstanding man you've become. But you can shove that "good host" shit up your ass. You're too old to be sleeping on a couch, and I don't want to be responsible for your chiropractor bills. Now let's go. I'm tired."

Richie stared at him for a moment, but the fight had left his eyes. In its place was a look that Eddie recognized, but couldn't quite read; something passive and affectionate that brought Derry memories of every era rising up like soda fizz. And in the next second, it passed, lost in the gleam of Richie's grin.

_ "Dear Penthouse," _ he started,  _ "I never thought it would happen to me…" _

Eddie let out a bark of laughter before he could stop it, shook his head at himself as much as Richie, and moved down the hall. After a moment, Richie followed him.

* * *

Eddie didn't remember anything about his dream as he woke up, but he knew it wasn't a nightmare. It was easy enough to tell, since it was the first time in twenty-seven years that it hadn't been.

Richie was stretched out beside him, one arm thrown over Eddie’s chest, with his face halfway buried in the pillow. Eddie gave himself a moment to look.

Richie had always been a sprawler. Which wasn't an issue now, in a California king, but it had caused all sorts of problems when they had shared a bed as kids. Eddie had woken up on the floor as often as Richie back then, and he wondered now, in the soft light of the morning, as Richie snored softly from a few inches away, why they had always insisted on sharing anyway.

The answer seemed obvious, and yet just out of reach. Perhaps it had something to do with that protected feeling that was present even now. Eddie figured he should probably find it weird that he was more comfortable sleeping with Richie’s limbs flopped over him than he ever had been with a foot of space between him and Myra, but he didn’t get a chance to dig into it.

Richie made a groggy, puzzled noise, like he was waking up for the very first time in his life. He tilted his face toward Eddie without lifting his head, and squinted at him with the same confusion written in his eyes. Then, after a moment, his mouth curled into a tired smile.

Eddie couldn't help smiling back.

"That's one more notch on the bedpost," Richie muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

Eddie rolled his eyes, but couldn't manage an appropriate scowl. "Is that your idea of hitting a home run? Falling asleep before ten, fully clothed?"

"Things are very different for us gays," Richie answered, surprising Eddie with how easily he said it now. He rolled away and snatched his glasses from the nightstand. Eddie's phone was plugged in just beside them, blinking its cheery green light to indicate more distress signals from real life. Richie picked it up and gave Eddie a grin over his shoulder. "Speaking of sexual blunders…"

"Fuck you. Gimme that."

Richie laughed as Eddie stole the phone from his hands, but he didn't wait to see what the message was. He rose from the bed and stretched.

"How about some breakfast?" he asked, moving for the door. "Pancakes?"

Eddie sighed. "You're officially banned from cooking while I'm here."

"What?" He stopped and turned back to Eddie. "You can't  _ ban _ me."

"I just did."

"It's my kitchen, Eds. You can't stop me from using my own kitchen."

"I can, and I will." Eddie crossed his arms, phone briefly forgotten, and tried to look authoritative despite his pajamas and bed head. "We're not having pancakes for breakfast every morning."

"Why not?" Richie said softly. Eddie might've thought he was serious, if not for the impish smile. "In case you haven't noticed, we're all grown up now. We can do whatever the fuck we want, and I distinctly remember a young Edward Kaspbrak and his secret sweet tooth."

Eddie stared at him for a moment, briefly entertaining a memory of Richie buying an extra Snickers bar from the vending machine without being asked. "You know, I was a bit worried that coming here would be like regressing back to a thirteen-year-old, and it's really great to know that I was fucking right."

Richie laughed again, tilting his head back, and it struck Eddie how thrilling it was to be around him again. His laughter just wasn't the same over the phone, didn't give Eddie the full rush that came with it.

"Aren't you always?" he said as he stepped into the hallway, more giggling echoing back. Eddie shook his head, started to laugh as well, then looked back at his phone, and the familiar  _ "12 new voicemails, Myra." _

He groaned.

At the very least, he had gained the breathing room that he needed to start working things out with her. She wouldn't be gentle with him—he didn't really think she should be, considering he had literally run out on her—but the initial conversation would be the hardest. If he could get past that, then they could go from there.

He took a deep, steadying breath, ignored the voicemails and punched the call button. It didn't even get through a full ring.

_ "Eddie, oh my god, where are you? Are you hurt? Do you need me to come find you? What's—" _

"Myra,  _ Myra," _ Eddie said, nearly shouting to break through her hysteria. "I'm fine. Please calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down," she cried. "I've been worried sick! You disappeared, and then you didn’t pick up all those times I tried to call you! They wouldn't even let me file a missing person report, can you believe that? Janice, from book club, she said that—"

"Wait, you tried to report me  _ missing?" _

"You weren't answering your phone! I didn't know where you were, and you were so upset when you left, I thought… I don't know what I thought! But it was nothing good, Eddie-bear."

Eddie bit back a sigh, although a knot of real guilt was twisting around in his gut. He had never meant to worry her.

"I'm sorry, Myra," he said. "I shouldn't have left like that."

"Where did you go, sweetheart?"

"I'm in Los Angeles."

She made some kind of choked screeching sound, caught between shock and horror. "Why on earth would you go all the way to Los Angeles?"

"It's…" he paused, searching for the best words to explain. Unfortunately, he still didn't fully understand it himself. "It's kind of a long story, but I'm staying with Richie for now."

"...Who?"

Eddie gripped the comforter like a stress ball. He silently counted down from ten, and said carefully, "One of my friends."

"I see," Myra hummed after a moment. "Well, it’s alright then."

"Myra… Wait, what?" The sudden shift in momentum was unusual for her. She was many things, but inconsistent was certainly not one of them.

"I can only imagine how stressed you must be, but you can come home now, Eddie-bear. You don't have to stay there." Her voice was soft like she was talking to an injured animal or a scared child. "We can be reasonable about this."

Eddie tried to piece together what she was getting at, but he was still stumbling from the blindside. He had expected a lot more manipulation and at least one ultimatum. But reasonable was what he had been hoping for, so maybe they were on the same page after all.

"Right," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Okay. Well, I’ve already figured everything out at the office. They want me back by Monday, but I’m staying here for the weekend."

"You don’t have to do that, sweetheart," Myra broke in, "I told you that you’re free to come home."

Rather than following his first instinct to declare he had no intention of coming home to her, he said, "Sure, but Richie has this thing, and I decided to stick around to help him—"

"That’s not your responsibility anymore, Eddie," she said. "It never was. You’ve been through enough."

Eddie’s stomach sank. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Eddie-bear," she said sweetly, as if his question was just silly enough to be charming. The tone made his shoulders tense. "For goodness sake, our fight made you so upset that you ran all the way to California. I’m sorry if you thought you couldn’t come home, but you’re not stuck with that depraved man, I promise. You can come back to me, we can forget about all this nonsense, and you’ll never have to talk to any of those people again."

A chill swept over his skin, which reminded him so much of the clown that his throat constricted. It had used just this against him, hadn’t it? The gaslighting, the fear, the threat of losing the Losers—his hand twitched for his inhaler, and he balled it into a white-knuckled fist—all the symptoms and sicknesses that his mother had left behind. He was still living the nightmare, even when Pennywise was dead.

"What the fuck," he said quietly, more to himself than anything. 

"I don’t blame you for running away, I know how fragile you are," she went on, either not hearing him, or not listening, "but I’m glad you’ve come to your senses about all of this. I’m only sorry that you had to see for yourself how bad those people really are."

It took a good deal of willpower to stop himself from hanging up the phone and throwing it across the room. They had put Pennywise to a decisive end five weeks ago. It was gone. It couldn’t torment any of them like this anymore.

This wasn’t some primeval monster showing Eddie his worst fears. This was just Myra being Myra.

"This isn't what I wanted," he uttered. 

The words were there, out in the open, before he even realized he had thought them. His heartbeat picked up instantly, pumping that reckless adrenaline through him again. At this rate, he would end up halfway around the world with frosted tips and a bad spray tan, driving some trashy deathwish of a midlife crisis mobile. 

And yet he made no move to take the words back.

Myra was quiet for just a moment—he wondered later what her face must have looked like then—before carefully saying, "Come home then, Eddie-bear."

"No, Myra, that’s not what I meant. I…" As his mind kicked into gear again, caught up to his mouth and processed what he was trying to say, Eddie started to shake. This was becoming something much more deliberate than just an emotional breakdown or a midlife crisis. "You're wrong," he added. "I haven't just suddenly realized you were right, and that all my friends are terrible people. I called because when I get back to New York, I’m not coming back to you."

"Eddie…" Myra started. He could hear the hurt in her voice, but it was difficult to tell how much she meant it. "You can’t just abandon me here alone like this. What happened to being reasonable?"

Eddie grit his teeth. "I’m being as reasonable as I can."

_ "What? _ Eddie, you’re being ridiculous—I just want to keep you safe. I can’t do that when you’re three thousand miles away, holed up with some pervert!"

"His name is Richie," Eddie snapped, the words coming out harsher than he had intended. There was an odd heat burning just under his skin. "He’s my best fucking friend, Myra, and you don’t even know his goddamn name, so don’t talk about him like that."

She made a plaintive noise. "You haven’t learned at all," she said coldly.

Eddie let out a slow sigh. "Myra, look, you’re still my wife for now, and I wanted this to be as easy as possible for both of us. I was hoping we could talk about all of this like adults, but you have to understand that my friends aren’t going away. We’ve been through a lot together, and—"

"You just don’t know what’s good for you, Eddie-bear," Myra cut in, a pitying lilt to her voice. "You’ll see soon enough, and when you do, I’ll be here for you. They’ll never love you like I do."

The room was still as her words rattled through him. Eddie could hear Richie down the hall, whistling some nameless tune like he often did when he was in a particularly good mood. The sun came through the curtains in a delicate sheet, which cut across the covers and warmed Eddie’s skin. He wondered, suddenly, if Bev ever woke up like this; curled in bed with the sun and the soft sounds of Ben doing something sweet like making her breakfast.

He also remembered being eleven years old, sick with the flu, and high on cough syrup as Richie read comic books to him with all his voices. Eddie had told him to go home. Richie had climbed in through his window and insisted. It had been the first time since that initial whisper of a fever that Eddie had actually felt cared for instead of quarantined.

Maybe she was right, maybe he would never find anyone like Ben, or Bev, or Stan. But if Myra was the only person who could ever love him, then so be it. It was enough just to have the Losers.

"Fuck it, then," he said. "I’m done, Myra."

He didn’t wait for her response. Once the line was dead he was throwing off the covers and padding out to the hallway, following the sounds of whatever chaos Richie was conducting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the smell of domestic bliss in the morning...


	6. God Knows, I've Fallen In Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie helps to keep Eddie's mind off of Myra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myra says one more shitty thing in this one. Also I know very little about the geography of LA so if there's any inconsistencies just suspend your disbelief...

"Set anything on fire yet?" Eddie asked as he came into the kitchen, surprising himself with how calm his voice sounded. Richie turned away from the coffee machine with raised eyebrows.

"That was fast," he remarked, giving Eddie a scrolling look as if he expected to see the signs of a brawl. "And quiet," he added.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Richie shrugged, pulling out the pot to pour a cup for Eddie. "I guess I thought she’d be more of a screamer."

Eddie answered with a noise of disgust.

"So…?" Richie began, sounding stiff.

"So what?"

"Come on, Eds. How'd it go? What did she say?"

Eddie stared at him for a moment, his focus catching briefly on the curve of his mouth and the glint in his eyes. Sometimes, between the shitty mom jokes and the severely imbalanced diet, it was frighteningly difficult to distinguish him from the boy Eddie had known in middle school. And sometimes—all the time, really—it brought back all the same feelings that he had felt back then.

And in the unstable wake of what he had just done, standing in the kitchen with a grinning, bedraggled, adult Richie Tozier was like waking from a long and terrible nightmare.

It was far too soon to go back to bed, but Eddie still considered burying himself back into Richie's hoard of blankets. "It doesn't matter," he answered, staring down into his coffee to avoid watching Richie's face fall.

"Shit," he muttered, "are you okay?"

"I’ll be fine," he lied, just as his phone buzzed again. He froze, waited for it to stop, and ignored Richie's curious glance. Once it went silent again, he turned it over to see several text notifications.

He should have known she wouldn't give in that easily.

He swiped them away. Before Richie could start asking questions, Eddie pushed past him to the fridge. He pulled out a carton of eggs and one of the bell peppers he’d bought before Richie had a chance to say anything else about pancakes.

He made omelettes, another food that, while not entirely forbidden in the Kaspbrak household, was frowned upon by Myra. Something about the chemicals they used to bleach the eggs.

Myra called and texted through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Eddie let it ring out, shoving it into his pocket every time it lit up. All day.

Richie took notice every now and then, eyeing Eddie with a raised eyebrow, but he didn’t push the issue. That was, until Eddie finally made the mistake of reading some of the messages— _ "You can’t do this to me, Eddie!"  _ and  _ "Come back before you get sick."  _ and the real kicker,  _ "He’s gotten to you hasn’t he, that pervert." _

He shut his phone off completely before his outrage got the best of him. Fleeing the feeling, he turned to Richie and said, "Okay, let’s do it."

Richie stared at him. "Uhh, what?" 

"Show me around the city or something," Eddie snapped. "You were whining about it all day yesterday, so let’s do it. Come on."

Richie gave him a skeptical look. Eddie didn’t wait for him to start asking questions. He leapt up and went for the door, and didn’t bother to make sure Richie followed. Eddie knew he would. He always did.

Perhaps due to his lack of a social life in New York, Eddie had never really gotten to know the city, and without thinking he had come to expect the same attitude of Richie. He figured they would spend the day bouncing around some of the various tourist traps. Of course, Richie scoffed at the idea.

"I’m a man of the city, Eds," he said with a haughty look. "If you wanted to see the Hollywood sign, you shoulda bought a fucking postcard."

Instead, with a glint in his eye, he led Eddie down the street several blocks and ducked into a hole in the wall that might as well have been a closet. Eddie followed him in only because he knew Richie would pick him up and carry him if he had to—he had seen that look in his eye enough times to know.

It turned out to be an ice cream parlor. Richie was already at the counter, pointing enthusiastically to the myriad of flavors displayed behind the glass, and for a moment Eddie forgot about the questionable hygiene of the place. It was like seeing double, the afterimage of a boy in Derry with a penchant for blowing his allowance on sweets and arcade tokens.

Eddie was pulled from the reverie as Richie sent him a glance. "And one scoop of plain chocolate, for the gentleman," he added, winking. Eddie blinked.

"You remember that?"

Richie smirked. "I hate to break it to you, Eds, but it’s not exactly the most creative order as far as desserts go. Plus, it was the only flavor you ever got."

"It’s a classic," Eddie protested, though the words were weak. He was still finding his balance among the memories.

"Sure, a classic." Richie took the ice cream with a polite smile that did nothing to undercut the teasing tone of his voice. "You know what else is a classic?"

"If you say anything about my mother, that ice cream is gonna meet the sidewalk real fucking fast."

Richie laughed as they left the parlor, and Eddie quickly joined him because it was just too hard not to. But when Richie handed him the ice cream, he hesitated.

"It’s not gonna kill you, man," Richie said. 

"You sure about that? That place looked like a health inspector's worst nightmare."

"It did not," Richie chuckled. "Come on, this is the best ice cream in the city. Trust me."

Eddie glowered for another moment. Then, before he could overthink it, he took the cone and bit into it—mostly out of spite, but also because he knew it would make Richie squirm.

"Okay, fuck, I did forget that." Richie cringed. "God, you’re a fucking animal, Eds."

Eddie responded by doing it again. He was no expert, of course—he hadn’t eaten ice cream in years—but he didn’t think Richie was exaggerating. It was delicious. 

As they ate, Richie steered them through a park and told him some of the jokes he had improvised on stage, some of the material he had written after coming back from Derry. Eddie almost choked on his ice cream more than once. By the time they had finished eating, the sun was low and they had made their way to a desolate stretch of beach. Eddie hadn’t even realized how close they were to the ocean. 

"Richie, why do I feel like we’re not supposed to be here?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"I don’t know, Eds, that sounds like something you should be asking your therapist."

Eddie glared at him. "From what I understand, empty beaches on a Saturday in LA aren’t really a thing."

Richie shrugged, and gestured further down the shoreline. "Not many people appreciate beauty like I do."

Eddie raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, relax, there’s a spot up ahead that I like to go to sometimes. It’s definitely not private property."

"Really?" Eddie narrowed his eyes. "Because the way you said that makes me think that it definitely is."

"Ah, there it is," Richie said, quickening his pace and ignoring Eddie’s further protests. But when Eddie followed him up onto an outcropping of rock, he fell silent.

The beach came to a point where they were standing, arching out toward the water. A few trees had grown in a clump on the other side, giving the spot an isolated feel, like it was a bubble somewhere outside of the crowded streets of the city. From the edge of the rock, the rest of the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the ocean and the sky, painted in brilliant hues of red and orange in the fading daylight. Richie settled on the edge with his feet dangling, and sent Eddie a smile over his shoulder.

Eddie’s breath escaped him.

"Pretty cool, right?" Richie said. He waved a hand for Eddie to join him.

"There’s no way this isn’t private property."

Richie laughed as Eddie sank down beside him. "Who cares? If it is, they can share."

"That’s not how that works, Rich," Eddie shot back. There was no heat to it. He was still lost in the portrait of sundown that stretched in front of them. "How did you even find this place?"

Richie hesitated, and then sighed. "I moved out here after two bullshit weeks of college. I was completely broke, I lived in an absolute shithole—the kind of place you wouldn’t be caught dead in—and I couldn’t sleep. I was just so stressed all the time and I kept having these dreams about… well, you know."

Eddie turned away from the sunset to look at him, but Richie didn’t meet his gaze. Not that it mattered. Eddie knew what he meant.

"So," Richie went on, "one day I hopped on the subway, picked a random stop, and just walked around the city until I was so tired that I knew I wouldn’t lie awake all night staring at the ceiling. That seemed to do the trick, so I did it again. And again, and again. Until, one day, I found this place." He shrugged. "Then the stops weren’t random anymore. Whenever I got nervous, I came here."

Eddie stared at him. The last bit of sunlight made him look younger, and Eddie could almost picture him as a scrawny twenty-something wandering the streets. It was a far cry from the easygoing kid Eddie had grown up with. "You were nervous?"

Richie finally looked back at him then, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Hell yeah, I was nervous. I was an anxious wreck. When you take a leap like that, the constant threat of failure tends to get to you."

"It never seemed to stop you when we were kids," Eddie replied, a chorus of "beep beep" running through his head. 

Richie laughed softly. "Of course it didn’t. Have you ever met a preteen? They’re the most shameless people on the planet—and I live less than an hour away from Beverly Hills." He leaned back on his hands, and paused for a moment. "Besides, things were a lot simpler back then. I didn’t have a worry in the world, as long as I was making you laugh."

Something warm and pleasant flooded Eddie’s veins. He smiled toward the sinking sun, and didn’t question the feeling. "In that case, it’s a shame you got so hung up on making shitty jokes about my mom," he murmured.

Richie huffed weakly, and leaned forward again. Eddie turned to face him, and was reminded of that last night in Derry as they parted for their rooms, those few charged moments as they stood in the hall. Richie’s eyes seemed paralyzing.

"Listen, Eds," he started.

"Hey!"

Eddie flinched so hard that he nearly toppled off the rock. Richie twisted around to where the shout had come from.

"Hey, you! How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t be here!"

"Oh fuck," Richie hissed. He scrambled to his feet and pulled Eddie up with him. "We gotta go, come on."

"What?" Eddie staggered after him, squinting through the dusk to see a man on the other side of the trees. "Richie, what the hell?"

"Get off my damn beach!"

_ "Richie,"  _ he growled, "you said it wasn’t private property."

"I lied!" Richie laughed, skidding back down to the beach. "You fucking knew I was lying!"

Eddie ran after him, thankful he was leading the way so he wouldn’t see the grin on Eddie’s face. They ran for less than a minute, and stopped to catch their breath for nearly as long.

"You’re really out of shape," Eddie remarked. Richie laughed breathlessly. Once they had recovered enough to make their way back into the city, Eddie gave Richie a good punch on the arm for nearly getting him arrested. 

As they were nearing Richie’s building again, Eddie let the warm feeling in his blood flow to his brain. In the resulting calm, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and powered it back on, hoping that the torrent had ended.

It hadn’t.

The high fizzled as his phone burst to life. He had to resist the urge to hurl it down onto the sidewalk and shatter it. Instead, he just held down the power button, smothering it back into slumber. Richie had watched the whole process and was giving Eddie a concerned look.

"As much as I hate to kill a good buzz" he ventured, "I get the feeling things didn’t go so great this morning."

"It looks worse than it is," Eddie sighed. That wasn’t true; it was worse. But he didn’t want to get into it with Richie. He didn’t want to talk about the declaration he had made that morning, and he didn’t want to think about Myra begging him to come back, and he really didn’t want to think about what would happen at the end of the weekend when he was supposed to return to New York.

"Right," Richie said. They walked in silence for a bit, Richie throwing glances at Eddie that he probably thought were subtle, but Eddie felt them like hailstones. Just as he was about to yell at him to cut it out, he spoke. "How about we go for a drink?"

Eddie shot him a skeptical look. "Like, at a bar?"

"Well, I was thinking something a little more fun than that. I know some great crack houses a few blocks from here, very popular among the local drug addicts." He laughed at Eddie’s horrified expression. "Yeah, dumbass, a bar. Where the fuck else do you go for a drink?"

Eddie smacked him in the arm, but hesitated to answer. Richie doubled down.

"C’mon, Eds, I know a great place, just a few minutes from here. Plus, you’re on vacation. Why not?"

Eddie glared at him, but it held little heat. "I’m not on vacation, Richie."

"Sure, sure," Richie said, waving away the protest. "What do you say? I promise this won’t get you arrested."

Eddie scowled at him for another moment, but he never could resist Richie when he was set on something. "Fine."

When Richie wheeled them into a seemingly random building several minutes later, Eddie braced for some awful crowd of beerlogged, former-frat-bro types, but the place was surprisingly quiet. The lights were low, but it was well-lit and actually quite clean. Eddie was ready to marvel at the unexpected choice when he noticed the source of all that light.

The back half of the bar was lined with old arcade machines; the kind that had made their home at the Aladdin back in Derry, and stayed there until they had grown well into their own obsolescence. From where they stood by the door Eddie could already recognize some of the games. They had PacMan, obviously, and a well-worn Donkey Kong. Dig Dug, Frogger, and Asteroids lined the back corner, between a pinball machine and one of those stupid fucking crane games. And through the din, Eddie easily picked out the looping tune of Street Fighter, like a familiar voice calling out his name in a crowd.

Richie had already stepped up to order their drinks, though it was more like an usher’s booth than a bar, with just four beers on tap and a few shelves of liquor behind it. The bartender chuckled at something Richie said, and once he’d received the drinks he gave her an exaggerated salute. When he turned around, Eddie could only stare.

"What’s wrong, Eds?" he grinned. "Are you flashing back to all those times I crushed you in Joust?"

"You didn’t  _ crush  _ me, you son of a bitch, you fucking  _ cheated,"  _ Eddie uttered, purely on instinct. In an instant he was slammed back in time, walking his bike down Main Street and screaming those same words at an increasingly hysterical Richie as they made their way home. The line between past and present was jarringly thin here, much like the ice cream parlor, and it left Eddie feeling… lighter, somehow.

Richie blinked at him, eyes shining with undoubtedly similar memories before he fell to pieces. He laughed so hard Eddie had to snatch the bottles from his hands with a curse.

"Richie, please tell me you didn’t pick your apartment based on how close it was to the nearest arcade."

"Well, not  _ entirely."  _ Richie smiled. "It was definitely a selling point, though. They have Street Fighter II, Eds!"

"Richie—"

"Don’t worry, I know you’re probably way out of practice," Richie cut him off, "but we can start small. Maybe warm up with a few rounds of... Galaga?"

Despite himself, Eddie froze. He took a quick swig of one of the drinks in his hands in an effort to hide the reaction, but Richie had been looking for it. His grin was blinding.

"C’mon, Eddie Spaghetti, the universe needs you," he urged.

"Is this fucking spiked root beer?" Eddie asked. Richie waved a dismissive hand, but didn’t take the bait.

"There are aliens to shoot. A lot of them. Very coordinated aliens, and only you are fit for the task."

"Goddammit, fine." Eddie rolled his eyes as Richie whooped far too loudly for the sparsely populated bar. He led Eddie to the back where, sure enough, the familiar black machine sat tucked in next to PacMan. Richie ran off to stock up on tokens, leaving Eddie to fiddle with the controls experimentally.

See, Eddie had never fully understood Richie’s obsession with Street Fighter—or really any game for that matter. Sure they were fun for a while, but the false sense of progress always gave way to frustration as soon as things got too difficult. Eddie didn’t have the kind of time or patience to figure out all the tricks the way Richie seemed to. Most of the games he played with Richie were only fun because… well, because he was playing them with Richie.

But Galaga was different. Eddie could remember the day Richie had dragged him to the theater, nearly splitting at the seams with the news that the owner had recently purchased a new game, the first fresh addition in years. When they had burst through the doors, Richie’s face had fallen upon seeing the cabinet.

"Galaga?" he had groaned. "That came out like a million years ago!"

After which, he had dejectedly suggested they just go back to the clubhouse to read comics. Eddie had refused. He had told Richie that he had to play  _ something _ after being dragged there, but secretly he had just wanted to ease Richie’s disappointment. So, he had used a portion of his own allowance for a handful of tokens and played the old game for himself.

Fifteen minutes later, Richie had been jumping around at his side, beaming and giddy as he proudly proclaimed, "Eddie Kaspbrak, you’re a fucking natural-born, alien-ass-kicking  _ machine!" _

Eddie had loved the game ever since.

Now, as Richie ran back over and slid tokens into the machine, Eddie felt some of that old excitement bleeding back into him. He hadn’t played the game in over two decades, but there had never been much of a learning curve for him in the first place. For the hell of it, he cracked his knuckles and shook out his hands, making a show of it and grinning at the clear anticipation on Richie’s face.

He stepped up to the machine again, gripping the joystick and waiting for the first looping wave of aliens. It came to him as easily as it had that very first time, and soon Richie was cheering along beside him.

"Here we have our number one starfighter pilot, Captain Edward "Spaghetti" Kaspbrak," he said, narrating Eddie’s progress like a sports commentator. "He never saw war before the Galaga invasion, but he’s the best soldier humanity has ever seen. No matter how many aliens there are, or how many loop-de-loops they do right the  _ fuck in front of him,"— _ the voice went strangled for a moment as a group of enemies swept just above the shooter. Eddie shook his head.—"Ah! Captain Kaspbrak always takes ‘em down! Stand back, ladies and gentlemen, we have a champion at work!"

Eddie laughed, narrowly escaping a round of alien fire as he did. He yelled at Richie to shut up, and Richie didn’t, and soon they were both laughing so hard that Eddie didn’t even care when his last ship exploded.

"You piece of shit," he gasped between fits, "Look what you did."

"We’re doomed!" Richie cried out, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. "All hail our new alien overlords!"

Eddie cackled and brought up his drink to clink against Richie’s. "To the fallen," he muttered somberly.

Richie beamed at him as he drank, the blinding smile that he always wore when people decided to play along with his antics. It made Eddie’s heart dance around in his chest. He thought, perhaps, that he had missed Richie more than he ever could have imagined, more than he would ever really know.

Richie went to get them refills, then, and when he came back they moved on to the next game. And the next, and the next. Eddie had to admit, it was more fun than he had really expected—but then again, why wouldn't it be? Everything was fun when he was with Richie.

The night grew long, and the bar grew more crowded. Richie had been pestering him to play Street Fighter all night, but grew insistent on at least a few rounds before Eddie could start complaining about how old he was and how late it was getting.

"C'mon, Eds, I haven't kept up with my training in years," he whined, "plus I'm drunk. You actually stand a chance for once!"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck  _ you," _ he returned with a crooked smirk.

And because Eddie was also drunk—on spiked root beer, for fucks sake—he bristled. "Fine," he hissed, leaning in so close he could smell the alcohol on Richie's breath. "You're on."

Richie's throat bobbed as he swallowed, and then he smirked again. "Lead the way, good sir."

Eddie did. He gave Richie one last challenging glare, before walking— _ not  _ stumbling—over to the most familiar machine in the room. No one was using it, despite the growing crowd. Eddie had already managed to shove the tokens in when Richie joined him.

"Best outta three, no cheap stuff?" Richie asked.

They shook on it.

Thirty seconds into the first round, Richie nudged Eddie’s elbow, breaking a string of combos that Eddie had been quite proud of. And then all bets were off.

Of course, Richie was still good, but after his Galaga high Eddie had a fire burning in him. He stuck his own arm out, forcing Richie to twist around or lose track of his buttons. In retaliation, Richie shoulder checked him. From there, they both delved into every dirty trick in the book: shoving, kicking, grabbing, wrestling each other as much as they were actually playing. It was the exact same pattern as countless Street Fighter matches from years before. And just like back then, Eddie would’ve called it cheating if it hadn’t won him his victory at the last second.

He had gotten his character right up close to Richie’s and then snapped a hand out to grab at his wrist, using his free hand to mash his attack buttons. Richie probably could have pulled his hand away if he had tried hard enough, or perhaps if he weren’t so drunk, but he didn’t. Eddie watched as the final animation played out, still holding Richie’s arm. Then he looked Richie right in his stunned face and offered a single triumphant, "HA!"

Richie didn’t respond at first. He blinked glassy eyes at Eddie’s hand still gripping his wrist, and then at Eddie’s face. Then he laughed. It didn’t quite hit Eddie the way that it usually did.

"You little fucking cheat," Richie said, which successfully distracted Eddie from the odd reaction.

"You’re the fucking cheat, asshole, you started it—" He stopped as a familiar churning rose in his gut.

"Eds?"

"I think I’m gonna throw up," he said simply.

Richie’s face went pale. He slipped his arm out of Eddie’s grasp and ushered him to the door.

The fresh air was nice, and Eddie marveled distantly that it was still a little warm even this late at night. Richie stood beside him as he took several slow, shuddering breaths to ease the nausea.

"Y’okay there, Spaghetti?" he asked. Eddie groaned.

"Don’t fuckin’ call me that. I’m—" he hiccuped "—almost forty."

Richie fell into a fit of giggling, and gave Eddie a pat on the shoulder. "Sure thing,  _ Mr. Kaspbrak," _ he said, dropping his voice a few pitches on the name and laughing again. "Lemme settle the tab and get you some water. Be right back."

Eddie leaned back against the building as Richie went back inside, and the cold brick against his back brought him back to that night in New York, staring at a photo of Stan’s wife and realizing that there was something deeply wrong with his life. He still didn’t really know what that was, but here, with Richie, it was hard to remember even being that miserable.

For the last few hours, he had been slowly rediscovering something that he had forgotten was in him; the loud, competitive kid that could go toe to toe with Richie Tozier, and match him every step of the way. The kid that took pride in his knack for a dumb video game, and cheated for fun, and drank sugary garbage just because his best friend had bought it for him. He had remembered, even more than he had in Derry, what life had been like outside of the overbearing love of his mother. 

And he hadn’t thought of Myra in hours. 

The thought filled him with a series of emotions that he was far too drunk to properly process. Fortunately, that was when Richie returned, brandishing a bottle of water with the cap already twisted off a bit. He offered it to Eddie with a smile far too soft.

"I loosened it up for ya," he said.

Eddie blinked blearily at the bottle before taking it in shaking hands. As he drank, he felt Richie’s eyes on him.

He always felt Richie’s eyes on him.

"We should head back," he muttered. "You’ve got your big meeting tomorrow and all…" He thought for a moment, and then reached over to punch Richie in the arm.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"You’ve got an important fuckin’ meeting tomorrow, Richie! What the hell are we still doing here?"

"Hey, it was your idea to go out."

"Yeah, for a few hours! It’s like fuckin’ midnight or something."

Richie just shrugged.

"Don’t just shrug!"

"Well, what do you want from me, Eds?" he asked. "You seemed really upset today, and I wanted to cheer you up."

Eddie stopped, his anger bleeding away as easily as it had come. "You did?"

Richie watched him for a moment. Then he shook his head, smiled, and said, "Yeah, I did." He nodded down the street in the direction of his building. "Come on, Eds."

They walked in silence for a minute. Eddie waited for Richie to say more, but he didn’t, and eventually he got tired of waiting. "I’m gonna murder you if you’re too hungover for your meeting," he slurred.

Richie laughed. In a quick movement, he stole the water from Eddie’s hand and took a drink. Eddie watched him do it, and felt no urge to protest. "Don’t worry, I’ll take all my vitamins."

"You should do that anyway, Richie," he sighed. He was immensely tired all of a sudden. There was still a whole plague of pressing thoughts swirling around just beyond the drunken haze of his mind, but he ignored it. Instead, he leaned into Richie and smiled as he felt an arm come up around his shoulders. "Thanks, by the way."

"What for?"

Eddie shrugged lazily. "For cheering me up. For showing me your special little trespassing spot. For letting me crash in your bed after I showed up out of nowhere. Just for everything, I guess."

Richie gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Rest assured, the pleasure’s all mine, Cap’n Kaspbrak."

"Shut up," Eddie chuckled. And then added softly, "Y’know what? I really love you, Rich."

Richie’s arm went stiff across Eddie’s back, but a moment later, he answered in faint voice. "Yeah, Eds. Love you too."

All Eddie remembered after that was how cold he felt when they reached the apartment building and Richie took his arm away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How gay can two men be without realizing they're gay? The answer may surprise you.


	7. This Time I Know It's For Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie figure it all out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, folks. The final chapter, and it's a nice long one. I'm very excited to finally have this out in the world, and I hope you all enjoy the finale as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Richie’s meeting was at ten the next day. Eddie forced them out of bed at eight, and managed to not vomit long enough to start a pot of coffee. Richie leaned against the counter and groaned until Eddie poured him a cup.

"How does this taste so good," he moaned at the first sip. "You used the same shit that I always have. Did you drug this?"

Eddie rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hold back a smile. "Shut up, you’re just hungover."

"Dodging the question, I see." Richie heaved a despairing sigh. "Two days in Los Angeles and you’ve already fallen prey to the raging drug epidemic. And I didn’t even take you to those crack houses."

Eddie laughed, and then cursed at Richie for making him laugh. His skull was pounding. Richie relented for a minute, nursing his coffee and his own aching head. When he spoke again his voice was cautious.

"So, any more news from the wife?"

Eddie’s blood went cold, but instead of deflecting like he had yesterday, he just sighed. "I don’t know. Probably."

"Do you… do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Eddie said with just a bit too much force. Then he sighed again, shaking his head at his coffee. "I think I’m just not meant for the whole love and marriage deal."

Richie didn’t respond immediately, and when Eddie looked up again he was scrutinizing him like he’d spoken in a different language. "What are you gettin’ at, Eds?"

Eddie stared back at him, mildly confused by Richie’s disbelief. "Nothing," he answered, "just shit with Myra, it’s..."  _ Done, _ he thought to himself.  _ It’s done. _ He had said as much yesterday morning, had basically shown as much two days ago, but the reality of it was still a little daunting. "It just sucks sometimes," he finished instead. "Love sucks."

This answer didn’t seem to satisfy Richie, who stepped forward with a raised brow. "Love doesn’t suck, drama queen."

Eddie glowered at him. "Oh yeah? Tell that to my marriage. Tell that to all the issues I had with my fucking mother."

"Tell that to me," Richie shot back.

Eddie blinked at him. His tone had lost some of its teasing quality, and the look on his face indicated that he wasn't entirely aware of the shift. "What?"

Richie shook his head slightly, as if he'd caught himself in a daydream. "Tell that to any of the Losers," he added quickly. "We all love you, Eds. You can't tell me that sucks."

"That's different."

"Not really," he insisted. "Look, I don't know about you, but finding you guys again changed everything for me. I thought I was just some unlikable jackass that was gonna die alone, so finding out that there’s six whole people out there who actually give a fuck? That's not nothing, Eds." He shrugged. "Love is love, or however kids are saying it these days."

"That's not what that…" Eddie pressed his lips together, exasperated. He was right, dammit. The question of why things weren't good in his marriage had so confounded Eddie that he had never looked at it as something simple. Patty was practically a part of the group already, because Stan had wanted her to be, but Eddie couldn’t say the same of Myra. Maybe Eddie couldn’t be her husband because she could never be a Loser.

And that thought, for some reason, filled him with a new and baffling dread, so he pushed it away and fixed Richie with an easy glare. "Okay, for the record," he said, "you  _ are _ an unlikable jackass."

Richie threw his head back and laughed. Clearly the coffee had done the trick.  _ "You _ like me," he protested.

"I don't know how you got that idea."

At that, Richie sent him a wicked smirk, the glint in his eye nearly blinding. He clasped his hands over his chest and batted his eyelashes.  _ "Oh, Richie,"  _ he cooed in a cartoonish falsetto, _ "you're my beeest friend!" _

"Shut up, asshole, you sound like a Care Bear," Eddie snapped, hoping he pulled off a clipped tone despite the heat creeping up his face.

_ "I missed you soooo much, Richie! I aaalways come to  _ you, _ Richie!" _

"Fine, okay, I like you like, fifteen percent of the time."

"I'll take it," Richie said, beaming. "But only because I know you're lying. There's no way that number is less than sixty-nine."

"Jesus, don’t you have a meeting to get ready for?"

Richie’s grin twisted into a grimace. "I certainly do," he groaned. "Thanks for that fun little reminder. I’ll just go back to stressing myself to death now."

"Remind me who the drama queen is here?"

"Fuck you."

It was Eddie’s turn to grin as he shuffled past Richie to the fridge. He cooked breakfast, and they ate together while Richie pinballed between every topic under the sun that would distract him from his meeting. Eddie listened with a patience that was reserved for times like this, when Richie was so high strung that any extra tension was as likely to make him snap as it was to help him unravel.

Still, it wasn’t long before he started eyeing the clock on the stove. He was twitching like a junkie, leg bouncing, fingers fidgeting and fluttering, until Eddie rolled his eyes and said, "You have seriously got to relax, Rich."

"I’m plenty relaxed," Richie responded in a voice like cardboard.

Eddie stared at him, reaching out to clamp a hand over his jiggling knee.

To his credit, Richie stopped. He looked like he’d been caught in the headlights of a speeding truck.

"It’s going to be fine," Eddie said decisively. "How many venues have you sold out by now, Richie? They’re not going to drop you just because you’ve finally decided to be honest about yourself, and if they did…" He wasn’t entirely sure how to finish the thought, and his face grew warm as he fished for the right words. "Well, fuck them. They don’t deserve you."

Richie watched him wordlessly for a moment. Eddie’s face grew hotter. Then, with a hesitant smile, he said, "Gee, Eddie, keep talking like that and  _ I _ might be the one to get swept off his feet."

With a roll of his eyes, Eddie ushered him out of the kitchen to "go change into something a  _ little  _ fucking respectable for once." Richie went with a brief, grateful smile that left Eddie just a bit short of breath.

Fifteen minutes later, Eddie looked up from scrubbing off the stove, and made a choked noise as all his insides tried to rearrange themselves.

Richie had actually put on something somewhat professional, though not exactly what Eddie would deem workplace appropriate. He had swapped out the usual loud prints for a simple grey button down and a matching blazer. The shirt was untucked over a dark pair of jeans and—god, he was still wearing the same old sneakers, but still, he looked…

Eddie swallowed. He looked incredible.

"Respectable enough for you?" Richie asked. Eddie’s gaze snapped back to his face, and he realized he had been staring. Richie’s smile was hesitant and curious. His cheeks were pink.

"Is that a tailored jacket?" Eddie stammered, hoping to ignore the way his veins were crackling. "Holy shit, did you _ comb your hair?" _

Richie laughed, and some of the tension bled out of his frame. "Yeah, it was awful. Do you have any idea how much of a rat’s nest this turns into?" He gestured to his only slightly subdued curls.

"Yes, I do. I’ve seen it right after you wake up." Eddie shook his head, and stepped closer. "That’s why you’re supposed to—wait, are you wearing cologne, too?"

"Uh, sure, if “cologne” is a fancy word for the highest possible strength antiperspirant." Richie shrugged. "We’ll see if it makes a difference."

Eddie stared at him for another second, looking like an actual man for once instead of the goofy overgrown child he really was. On one hand, it was a nice change to see him taking something so seriously—it certainly shed a new light on all his anxiety—but on the other hand, Eddie kind of wanted to rip it all off and get him back into one of his stupid Hawaiian shirts as quickly as possible.

A hot, itchy sensation was spreading across his skin. He hoped he wasn’t getting sick.

"You’ll be fine," Eddie said, his voice coming out in a breathy way that he had neither intended nor expected. He cleared his throat, and focused all his attention on straightening the lapels of Richie’s blazer—which was definitely tailored, why did Richie Tozier have a tailored blazer, what universe was he in? "Like I said, there’s no way they’d just cut you loose. You’re a fucking good comedian, Richie. You’re smart, and you’re funny, and if they think you should hide behind some shitty, sexist ghostwriter just to keep a bunch of homophobic dickheads entertained then they’re too fucking stupid to see that."

Satisfied with his work and with his words, Eddie looked up again. His breath caught in his throat.

Richie was staring back at him with wide eyes, much, much closer than Eddie had realized. His lips were parted slightly, and his breath blew across Eddie’s face in warm puffs of mint—he’d brushed his teeth again, too.

For a silent, stretched moment, their eyes locked. Eddie felt a surge of something in him that was as confounding as it was exhilarating. Richie leaned forward, just a fraction of an inch, barely even perceptible, but suddenly the air between them grew thick and heady. Eddie’s hands clenched on the jacket.

"Eds…" Richie started, his voice low. Eddie’s thoughts quickly scattered, grew fuzzy and distant. That heat on his skin sparked into a raging fire. He had no idea what was happening here, but he knew he wanted it,  _ god  _ he wanted it, whatever it was. He could stand there forever, waiting for it to crash over him like a storm sweeping the coast, like the torrent of a broken dam, like all his memories had at that restaurant in Derry, like—

A hearty trill pierced through the air. Richie reeled back as if he had been shoved. Eddie came back to himself slowly, blinking away the daze as Richie fumbled his phone out of his pocket and cursed.

"I, uh, I gotta get going," he stammered, not quite looking at Eddie. "I’m—I’m gonna be late."

Eddie shook himself, and nodded. "Right," he said lamely, still reeling from… whatever the hell  _ that  _ had been.

"Right," Richie said back, though he hesitated. He finally met Eddie’s eyes again, and there was something frantic and panicked in the look on his face. He clutched his phone so tight that Eddie was a bit worried the screen would crack. His hands were shaking. "R-Right, I’m gonna… I really shouldn’t be late for this, I…"

Eddie found it in himself to roll his eyes. "You really shouldn’t be late for anything, Richie. Go."

Something about the gesture seemed to put Richie at ease, just a bit. He nodded and shuffled to the door, giving Eddie one last uncertain glance before he was gone.

Eddie watched the door shut behind him, expelling a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. And in a strained voice, he asked the following silence, "What the  _ fuck _ was that?"

The silence didn’t answer.

His thoughts came back into focus slowly, and then all at once.  _ That  _ had been something latent and raw, something big, and Eddie didn’t need anybody to tell him that whatever it was had caused a distinct shift between him and Richie. He had seen that much written plainly on Richie’s face before he left.

Eddie’s chest felt tight.

Before his thoughts could snowball into a panic attack, he hurried down the hall to the bedroom. His phone was on the nightstand, unplugged and still powered down. Eddie turned it on before he could overthink that, too.

Messages flooded in like a rain of bullets, rattling his phone in his hand. Most of them were from Myra, but Eddie was relieved to see several from the Losers as well. He opened up the group chat to see that Richie had sent a photo at some point the previous night.

It was blurry, but Eddie could make out the familiar pattern of Frogger in the background. His own face was halfway turned to the camera as he yelled something undoubtedly vulgar over his shoulder at Richie. Eddie couldn’t remember the specifics, but he had remembered playing the game later in the night when they were already well past tipsy.

Richie had captioned the photo with  _ "why did thhe frog cross the road?. HE DIDNT!! he got halfway cross and then eds KILLED HIM!!!!!" _

The Losers had responded with some amusement and more confusion. Eddie hadn’t spoken to any of them since his mad dash across the country.

As he read through the messages they had sent to the chat and to him specifically, his phone lit up with a call. He nearly flung the thing across the room before he realized it was Bill, not Myra again. He took a quick breath and answered.

"Hello?"

"Eddie! J-Jeez, it’s about time—were you planning on telling anyone you were in LA or were we supposed to just figure that out ourselves?"

Eddie huffed a weak laugh. "I figured Richie would tell you. Which he did, technically."

"Yeah, well Richie’s been a little hard to get ahold of the last couple days, too." Bill said. "I should’ve known you two were caught up together somehow."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Eddie asked waveringly, his mind snagging on the way Richie had leaned in ever so slightly, the way his voice had dropped, low, husky.

"Well, you know, with Richie coming out the way he did, we all hoped he was talking to someone," Bill explained. "It certainly wasn’t me, and it wasn’t any of the others. I guess it makes sense that he would go to you, though. As much as you two get under each other’s skin, you really have a way of reigning each other in."

Eddie swallowed. "Yeah."

"So? How did Richie manage to get you all the way out here?"

Eddie couldn’t think of a good way to answer that. "Actually, I came on my own," he said slowly.

"Wow, seriously?"

"Yeah, well, I happened to get a few days off work, and then everything happened with Richie, so I just decided to… fly out." He winced, not even believing himself—never had been a good liar—but Bill, bless his heart, seemed to buy it. 

"That’s great, Eddie," he said. "I went to see him the night it all happened and he wasn’t in great shape. He didn’t even want to let me in. Honestly, I’m really glad that you’re there."

Eddie’s heart stuttered. He remembered the way Richie had answered the door thinking it was Bill, the half-empty bourbon on the table, the ragged look in his eyes that had reminded Eddie of the days when Bowers had been particularly nasty.

_ I missed you, too, Eds. Like a fucking limb. _

Eddie shook his head. Bill was still talking in his ear, and he wouldn’t let himself be distracted by the memory of Richie’s voice as if he was a character in an old novel. No matter how earnest and soft that voice had been.

"...glad he finally got to take you," Bill was saying.

"What?" Eddie silently cursed at himself. What was happening to him?

"The picture he sent in the group chat. You went to that arcade bar down the street, didn’t you?"

"Oh, yeah," Eddie said, trying to regain his footing.

Bill hummed. "He’s dragged me there a few times, too. It’s like being back at the Aladdin, isn’t it?"

Eddie huffed, smiling to himself. "Yes. Leave it to Richie to find a place like that in the middle of LA."

Bill laughed, and Eddie felt himself relaxing. It was so easy to relax when he was talking to the Losers. He started to chastise himself for freaking out so much—he was just getting used to this again, this easy comfort. No need to blow it out of proportion.

"He’s been dying to take you there," Bill said. "Every time we’ve gone he hasn’t shut up about getting you to play Galaga."

"Trust me, he wasted no time. It was the first thing we did."

"Really?" Bill sounded impressed. "Even before Street Fighter?"

"Oh, we did that too." Eddie grinned, the memories coming back through a hazy filter. "I kicked his ass."

Bill gave another hearty laugh. "Damn, how drunk was he?"

"Fuck you, Bill," Eddie shot back. He didn’t need to know about the cheating, or how Eddie had almost thrown up afterwards, because that didn’t matter; Eddie had won, and Richie had lost, and they had—

His mirth bled away as the memory continued to play out. The fresh air on his face, and the cool brick wall against his back as he thought again of his wife. The way Richie had smiled as he handed Eddie the water. And, as they made their way home, the way Eddie had leaned into him, the warm feeling that had taken over as Richie pulled him close, and…

And Eddie had said he loved him.

Bill’s voice in his ear grew distant, but Eddie hardly noticed. His own voice, slurred and drunken, was replaying in his head— _ I really love you, Rich— _ and the response echoed back— _ Love you too, Eds. _

Eddie hadn’t meant it like  _ that, _ he told himself. It was the love of a friend, Eddie had meant it as a friend, of course he had, but…

Well…  _ had he? _

Eddie’s heart started to race. Because he had been drunk, and he had felt so unburdened by everything that had happened in New York, and Richie had been so close and so warm, and he couldn’t say with certainty that he  _ had  _ meant it as a friend. And Richie had said it back, but how had he meant it? Eddie couldn’t answer that any better, not after what had happened right before he left, not after  _ that. _

"Bill, I’m gonna have to call you back," Eddie said, his voice hollow in his own ears. Bill started to ask why, but Eddie hung up before the question was finished. His blood was running through his veins in searing waves. He thought he might be catching fire from the inside out.

He and Richie had almost kissed.

The thought came with an isolated clarity. Eddie felt like an idiot for taking as long as he had to figure it out, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t  _ known.  _ He just hadn’t let himself realize. They had almost  _ kissed, _ and the only thing that had stopped them was Richie’s phone shattering the tension. And thinking back on it, Eddie’s throat closed around the first wheezing breath of panic not because Richie had been seconds away from kissing him, but because of how much Eddie had  _ wanted it. _

Eddie felt himself start to shake, felt his chest grow tight. He had wanted that gap to close more than he had wanted anything in a long time, and he would’ve stood there waiting for it as long as it took. He had wanted it like he wanted everything when it came to Richie—a fierce, urgent pull, like a force of nature. And what the fuck was he supposed to do about that? How could he possibly resist it?

Because the thing was, Eddie had never known what love was like. Not beyond Myra, or his mother. Not in any way that wasn’t oppressive and miserable. And Richie was his best friend. It didn’t matter how much Eddie wanted it, that didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t have him like that, he  _ couldn’t. _

If what he had with Richie turned into what he had with Myra? Eddie would never forgive himself.

So, he made a choice.

He shot up from the bed so fast it made him dizzy for a moment. He had to act quickly. His suitcase was propped against the wall by the bathroom, not entirely packed, but not empty. He threw it open to take stock.

After a quick circuit around the apartment, Eddie glared down at his haphazard pile of clothes—barely organized when he had packed it all originally, and even less so now. It had been about an hour since Richie had left, and he could be back in minutes. Eddie didn’t want him to come home to nothing, but he also knew he couldn’t be there when Richie came back or he would never be able to leave. There was a fault running through him, a crack in his foundations that he was trying to patch even as it spread. 

When he had run from New York, a cycle of panic had bitten at his heels the whole way. Now that same cycle seemed to be holding him back. He didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want to return to his life on the other end of the country, and he certainly didn’t want to lose the freedom he had finally regained by backsliding into the pit just like Myra was expecting.

But that was only because love had already torn their relationship to tatters; in the end, returning to her was better than staying in LA and possibly risking the same outcome with Richie.

He flipped the suitcase shut and struggled with the zipper. His hands were trembling.

Then he heard the front door open, and his stomach dropped as if it were Pennywise itself making an unwelcome appearance. Richie’s voice floated down the hall, light and triumphant, and Eddie lost all the strength in his fingers.

"Eddie Spaghetti! The sellout is back, and he’s not a sellout anymore!"

With a quiet curse, Eddie gripped the metal tab and sealed the suitcase as Richie’s footsteps echoed closer. "Turns out, you were right," he was saying. "They told me I was a "valuable voice," and that they wanted to "pivot the marketing to a new demographic." I’m not totally sure what that means, but—oh."

Eddie didn’t turn around to see the look on Richie’s face. He glared down at his stupid luggage and willed his heart to stop rioting inside his rib cage.

"Uh," Richie started again. His voice had lost the jovial quality from a moment ago, now uncertain and wavering. "What's going on here, Eds?"

"I—" Eddie tried. He cleared his throat, took a breath, and tried again. "I'm going back to New York."

He heard Richie expel a short breath. "You're just leaving? Right after my big, adult meeting, and my super-exciting-kinda-terrifying career decision? I thought we could celebrate."

"It’s Myra," he said, the lie stinging his throat on its way out, "she wants me to come back, so we can talk things through."

Richie was quiet. Eddie made himself busy checking and double-checking all the zippers and pockets, like there was anything that he could have forgotten. He really just didn’t want to look at Richie. If he did, he couldn’t be certain his resolve would hold.

"Is this…" Richie said slowly, nervously. "Is this about what happened earlier? Before I left? Because if it is, Eddie, I’m sorry—"

"This isn’t about you at all, Richie." That was the last thing Eddie wanted to think about now. "Like I said, it’s Myra. I have responsibilities, and if there’s any chance I can make things work out with her then I have to try."

"You can’t," Richie said. His voice was a little breathless, a little disbelieving, but the words came out firm.

Eddie’s brows drew down. He spun to face Richie without thinking, and lost his breath a bit for doing so.

Richie stood in the doorway, one hand against the frame like he was worried about falling over. Eddie took him in like he never quite had before; his broad shoulders, his tall figure, his bright eyes shining behind his glasses. His hair had fallen back into a mess of wild curls, but it only made him look more like himself.

It was like that first time seeing him in Derry again, a sudden rush of recognition and relief, a sense of  _ yes, you, there you are, I’ve been looking for you this whole time. _ Eddie could have stared at him for hours.

He closed his eyes for a second and forced himself to focus. "What do you mean, I can’t?"

Richie shook his head. His chest was rising and falling just a fraction too quickly. "You can’t "make it work" with her."

"Excuse me?" Eddie fixed him with a glare. This was easy, this he could handle. Fighting with Richie was much more familiar ground than leaving him in the lurch. "What the fuck do you know about my marriage?"

"I know enough," Richie said, meeting Eddie head on and glaring back. "I know you, Eddie. I knew you in Derry, I knew you when you lived with your mom, and it doesn’t exactly take a dedicated team of observers to see that things aren’t all that different now."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means."

Eddie’s jaw clenched. "We’re just having trouble."

"Oh, please," Richie shot back, easy and confident. "You left her two days ago, and I haven’t seen you happier since we  _ cheated death." _

"Of course you haven’t!" Eddie snapped. "I’ve spent the last two days gladly putting off something difficult and unpleasant—"

"You mean the rest of your life?"

Eddie bristled. "I  _ meant _ rebuilding a marriage on the brink of failure, you asshole."

"Newsflash, Eddie." Richie waved his hands theatrically. "It’s well past the brink."

That fire was back, that heat along his skin, only now it was sulfuric and nauseating. "Fuck you, Richie."

"It’s a full-fledged failure," he added frankly, "like the fucking Hindenburg—one giant flaming, sinking ship."

"Oh, and you would know?" Eddie spat thoughtlessly. "Richie Tozier, our resident expert on love after thirty years of hiding in the fucking closet?"

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Richie stepped back like he had been struck, like the wind had been knocked out of him.

"Wow."

Eddie shook his head. "Wait, Richie, I didn't—"

"No, you’re right." He shrugged. "Not like I’ve ever been married. Shit, I couldn’t even say the word "gay" until a month ago, who would ever want to marry such a fucking closet case?"

Eddie could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. "Richie, no, that's not what I—"

"But at least I can see what’s right in front of me," Richie continued solemnly. He gave Eddie a heavy look that sucked all the air from his lungs. "She doesn’t love you, Eddie."

He froze. The heat had turned to ice, and it cut right down to his bones. His voice came out flat and quiet. "What?"

"If she loved you, you wouldn’t be here right now," Richie explained, shaking his head. "Not like this. You wouldn’t be spending all your time with me, trying your damnedest to pretend she doesn’t exist. You wouldn’t have run away from her in the first place. Love doesn’t make you want to run, Eddie. It isn’t just misery."

He took a step forward again, coming fully into the room and closer to Eddie as if he didn’t even realize he was moving. His gaze caught Eddie's and held it.

"It makes you miss her when she’s not there. It makes you desperate just to talk to her on the phone or something—doesn’t really matter what you’re doing as long as it’s her. It makes you crave her attention like a fucking dog because whenever she looks at you it’s like you can really breathe for the first time. And you think maybe you’re a little crazy, but it’s okay because when she laughs you feel like you could take on the fucking world. Love should make you feel good, Eds, because that’s what you deserve, you  _ deserve _ someone who loves you."

He fell silent with a shaking breath, as if he had crossed a line, said too much. Eddie stared at him blankly. Thoughts were cascading through his head in a dizzying pattern, a whirl of pieces sliding together and falling into place like Richie had presented him with the Rosetta stone to his own mind.

Myra didn’t love him.

"You mean someone like you?" he asked aloud, barely hearing himself.

The blood drained from Richie’s face. "Me? What? Th-that’s not what I was… I don’t—"

"You’re right, Richie," Eddie said, cutting him off as he tried to verbalize a mental riptide of understanding. "I didn’t come all the way out here because of one fight that got out of hand, and I didn’t decide to stay just to avoid going back. The truth is, I already tried to fix this, tried to live with it, but I couldn’t. Not after finding you all again."

Myra didn’t love him. It made sense, looking back: the way she treated him like a doll to take care of, the disregard she held for anything that happened to him other than cuts and colds. She didn’t even care about his best friends.

"I built my whole life—literally everything after I left Derry—without you and the others in the plans. Now nothing fits." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I’ve been trying so fucking hard to make everything fit. But Myra, my job, they don’t leave room for anything else, that’s why I left. That’s why I told her that I wasn’t coming back."

"Wait, what?"

Eddie ignored him. "This whole time I’ve been asking myself why I’m not like Ben and Bev, or Stan, and this is why. Their lives made room, and mine didn’t. Because Myra doesn’t love me, and I—I don’t love her." He took a shallow breath, the current finally pushing him up onto the shore. "So, what the hell do I have to be afraid of?"

"Nothing, Eds," Richie said, so earnestly that Eddie opened his eyes and stared. Richie looked back, like he always did, and despite the confusion written clearly on his face, his voice held only solid conviction. "There’s nothing to be afraid of."

Myra didn’t love him, and she never had. But this feeling, this heat, this burning pull toward Richie? This was different.

"I told you, you’re braver than you think."

This was the real deal.

"God, it’s always been you, hasn’t it?" Eddie breathed.

Richie looked even more confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I’m talking about  _ you, _ Richie." Eddie rolled his eyes. "Look, I’m sorry for making that dumb closet comment, that was a shitty thing to say. And pretty hypocritical, I guess, considering how long it’s taken me."

The confusion turned to disbelief, Richie’s eyes going wide. "Eds?"

"Richie, I’m gay," he said, letting the words fall out of his mouth in a rush, frantic and raw. "You were right, I do hate my job. I don’t want to go back to New York. I don't ever want to see Myra again for the rest of my goddamn life, and I… I love you."

Richie stared at him, silent and unmoving. Eddie’s heartbeat kicked up a notch as he thought of the night before, their drunken walk back to the apartment. He swallowed. "Like, not in a friend way," he added. "I’m in love with you."

Silence stretched, and Richie continued to gape at him. His breath was loud, his jaw worked like he was at least trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Eddie was witnessing, for the first time in his life, a completely speechless Richie Tozier. It might have been nice, if it wasn’t so stressful.

"Come on, Richie, you’re freaking me out," he snapped.

"S-Sorry, my brain is kinda... short-circuiting—did you really just say that?"

Eddie narrowed his eyes, heat creeping up his neck. "You fucking heard me."

Richie shook his head. His mouth did a complicated twist, as if it didn't know what emotion to express and was trying for several at once. "Okay, well, say it again."

Eddie paused. "You were right."

Richie looked like he was almost in pain. "Cute, but you know that’s not what I meant."

"I hate my job?" Eddie held back a grin.

"Eds," Richie sighed, like a plea, like he was begging. But he was definitely smiling now, moving forward as if he were nearly dead from thirst and Eddie was the first sign of water for miles. Eddie waited until he was close, until he was leaning in, until it took everything he had not to close the gap. Then he put a hand on Richie’s cheek and watched him melt at the touch.

"I love you, Richie," he whispered.

Richie took it like a blow. His face scrunched up, his eyes fell closed. He dropped his head down to rest his forehead against Eddie's.

"Fuck," he muttered. "Say it again."

"Screw you," Eddie scoffed, unable to stop himself. "Just fucking kiss me already, dipshit."

Richie let out a sharp breath. His eyes flew open, and he just stared at Eddie like he was the kind of miracle that slips away the moment the light shifts.

So Eddie kissed him.

It crashed over them as if the tension from that morning had never truly faded. Richie made a broken sound at the back of his throat. Eddie burned. All the air left his lungs to be replaced by fire and thunder. He slid his arms around Richie's neck, let his fingers tangle into the soft curls at the back of his head, and felt Richie shudder against him.

Richie pressed closer, his mouth slow and searing on Eddie’s. His arms came up to circle around Eddie’s waist, his hands sliding up the ridge of Eddie’s spine. It would've ripped a string of curses from Eddie's throat if only his breath hadn't gotten away from him again. So he ran his teeth along Richie's lip instead.

Richie made another sound, this one low and desperate, from deep in his chest. He opened his mouth, his tongue meeting Eddie’s like sparks met dry tinder, and in the next breath they were spiraling together into blind heat.

In nearly a decade of marriage, Eddie had never wanted anything like this, had never lost himself in her, never craved her hands on his skin. It was the opposite, really. The mere thought of doing anything with Myra had made his skin crawl, and he was furious with himself for not realizing it sooner, for letting himself lose years of this.

He gripped the collar of Richie's shirt, swung him down onto the bed, and crawled into his lap. Richie’s face was dazed and red, his lips already swollen. Eddie’s hands found his hair again, while his mouth went to the fluttering pulse in his neck.

"Holy shit, Eddie, Eds," Richie pleaded. The words were jumbled and broken by the hitch of his breath. His hands clutched frantically at Eddie’s hips. Eddie sank lower, shoving Richie's shirt aside to press biting kisses along the ridge of his collarbone.

"Wait, fuck—you know I love you, too, right?" Richie blurted, as if the words were a breath he'd been holding his whole life.

Eddie stopped. He sat back to meet Richie's gaze, the fire in his veins dissolving into something less certain.

It wasn't unexpected, and Eddie wasn't really surprised—he had listened to Richie describe love only moments before, his specificity betraying him—and yet…

"You do?" he asked quietly.

Richie nodded, chest heaving with labored breath. Eddie tracked the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

"I do," he said. "I have. For a really long time, actually. Like, almost thirty years?"

Eddie stared at him.

"I mean, obviously there was a stretch there where I didn't remember you, but the feelings didn't just disappear," he went on unsteadily. "I loved you even when I didn't know who you were—and let me just say, that fucking sucked. When I got back to Derry, it was a huge relief just to know that you  _ existed _ outside of my weird dreams, but you were married, and I was so fucking scared." He pushed his glasses up to press the heels of his palms against his eyes. "And then you almost  _ died." _

Eddie took a short, steadying breath. "But I didn’t die."

"You have no idea how close it was, Eds," Richie huffed. His voice was barely above a whisper, broken and hoarse. Eddie recalled his words in Derry.  _ I saw Pennywise kill you. In the deadlights. _ The way Richie had frantically pulled him down, cracking his head against the uneven rock, and held him in a vise grip for several moments. Through the black spots in his vision, Eddie had seen the claw come down where they had been moments before.

That must have been how he died. Richie had seen it happen right in front of him.

Eddie had wondered, weeks ago, how Richie had saved his life without making him feel like he couldn’t take care of himself. But Richie had been loving him silently for so long that saving him was as natural as breathing. He didn’t do it because he thought Eddie was helpless. He did it because he had to, because the alternative was unimaginable.

"Richie," Eddie whispered. He pulled Richie's reluctant hands away from his face, and leaned down to kiss him softly. Richie sighed into it, lashes fluttering as Eddie pulled away. "I forgive you for the concussion."

Richie laughed weakly, and gazed up at Eddie like he'd hung the moon. "Thank god," he croaked. "It worked, I’ve finally swept you off your feet."

"Shut up, Richie," he said, smiling.

"Oh, thirteen-year-old me," he went on, sighing, "hopelessly in love, trying so hard not to read into every little thing. If only he could see me now, just to know all that pining would pay off in a mere few decades."

Eddie kissed him again, slow and deliberate, licking into his mouth and sliding fingers under his shirt just to see that intoxicated look on his face again. When he pulled back, he gave Richie a smirk. "Y’know, when you put it that way, it sounds like I’m the one who swept you off yours."

Richie smiled. "Trust me, Eddie my love," he murmured, "you absolutely are."

* * *

The thing was, Eddie had never known what real love was like.

Richie was right, Myra hadn't loved him, and maybe his mom hadn't either. Or maybe they thought they had, and the overbearing paranoia was their way of showing it, but it had only ever offered suffering. It wasn’t love that made him miserable, because that had never been a factor; it was their abuse, and he had run from it.

But he never wanted to run now. He never felt trapped, or shackled, never felt the weight of his life on his chest like a landslide.

Eventually he had called Bill back and explained himself. He had already missed his flight back to New York by then, so later that night he convinced Richie to get dressed, and they had managed to wrangle the whole group into a video call. Eddie had told them everything in a tearful rush, Richie squeezing his hand the whole time. Beverly had smiled proudly at him, even while Ben teared up next to her. When he finished, Bill had raised his wine glass in a toast, Mike had cheered, Stan had given that rare smile with Patty at his side, and Eddie had understood then what Richie had meant when he said  _ "That’s not nothing, Eds." _

They brought out the best in him. They made him happy. They loved him.

Between the Losers and Richie—who spent every day making him laugh, and kissed him every morning like it was the only thing worth waking up for, and loved him in ways that had never even seemed possible before—Eddie felt like he was finally right where he was meant to be. It was a life that he had almost lost, down in the treacherous sewers of Derry, and what a shame it would have been to never have a chance at what his mother and Myra never gave him.

Eddie had never known before what real love was like. But with Richie, he thought it felt a lot like being free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: If you pay close attention to that last part, you can pinpoint the exact moment that I looked into the camera like I was on the Office.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much for reading. I'm so, so thankful to everyone who's been following the story the last few weeks. All the support has been insanely motivating and sweet, and I appreciate all the comments and kudos. Lots of love to all of you! <3


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